Poems

2

I sit and stare at my hands for hours, trying to make sense of the weariness that they now exhibit,

When did they become so strong and rigid?

They used to be soft and calm but now they seem chaotic, like the hands of a solider, that are worned out by fighting destruction for too long,

The veins are now more visible, green and blue,

They hurt too sometimes, like they're carrying the weight of every self-loathed act of mine instead of the blood,

It has become impossible for my hands to be still now, they shake consistently, depicting so clearly that the mayhem inside doesn't even let them rest for a moment,

The bones that they carry inside, now look brittle and weak, and are at the brink of snapping because they are suffocated by the weight of my existence.

I then close my eyes and rub my knuckles against my cheek, they seem stronger now, enough to knock down the walls I built in front of every being that I have ever loved even with the weak bones inside them,

You'd think that the war inside only affects the mind but it affects the body just the same - making it stronger and destroying it at the same time.