A Collection of Small Nothingness

Hands

The blood doesn't reach my hands.
Pale hands.
Smeared with ink from last night's cry to create. 
Everything I need at my elbows
nothing reaches my hands.
My fingers are cold my chest is burning
my eyes scald whatever they look upon.
My hands are paler than the rest of my body
My face does not match my action

Everything I need circulating flurrying circulating
inside of me my hands of ice don't let it be freed.
Everything to say
Everything to do I can't do them all because
of my pale hands.
My blood. My words. My thoughts, tears. 
Don't reach my hands.
They won't get past my hands.
Never freed.
Ever again.