My Unstable Poetry

Glass Hands

The wood of my kitchen counter,

stained my hands

Metal rusted from the many times

I've visited here

Hollow noises fades out

like a train on a track

when I was young

mum whispered in my ear how

our hands would always be

inseparable.

Back then, I believed words

Now I only taste them

My hands were glass.

Old apartment building windows that

break from pressure

patting my head

she now says my hands are a replica of

metal

soft

strong

real

cold

but,

my hands will always be like glass