"Who's hands," you wonder.
"Who's hands," she whispers.
"My own," I mutter.
Can't you see,
these footprints are nothing but crimson
Skeleton carved out of marble
Opium eyes from the bird on the clock
Layers of distrust from a Russian doll-
You'll never open me up,
never lay me out on the operating table-
So stop trying to carve away the skin-
And stop asking who's hands are at my throat.
Sincerely, THE AUTHOR
Thanks for reading!
