_their hands, so clumsy and dirty._
_god, i can't help but cringe as their
grimy, greedy digits caress my face_
_and i want to scream_ but the sounds
are muted pastel_ and their hands are
angry red,_ staining my cheeks with
crimson kisses._
if my eyes could
speak they'd scream your name._
_instead they weep it into my cool,
blue palms,_ the angry hands cutting
off the circulation in my throbbing
wrists._
_numb hands, blue hands,_
_your name pooled a million times in
my salty sorrows,_ sliding between my
fingers and racing down my arms._
_if i
could, i'd release your name to grab
your hands and pull you in to protect
me_ with your soft, gentle hands._
warm hands, light touch,_ i pray for
fire to envelope them_ so i can break
free, letting the ashes rain down
around us as i hold you one more
time._
YOU ARE READING
Silent Mouths, Rambling Minds
Poetry"Those who speak the least have the most interesting things to say,"
