My left hand is weak
my right is strong;
the power of them
lies in the palms,
upon my fingertips
and in my veins,
the knuckles and their dips
the energy they drain.

They cry, and they weep;
glistening coats of sweat;
moisture and heat
enough to make the paper wet
and fold and rise
like subtle hills;
written in them are lies
embedded as wills.

The paper is yellowed
intentionally and with gain
the graphite I wipe is hallowed
formless and just a stain.

I flip my palms up.
Right strong, left weak,
and see the rivers that I cup
the skin that is pale and bleak.

They cry.
they cry.

and the paper wrinkles.
I bend. I pull
but they don’t move,
like they’re stars in the sky
tethered by gravity
to the biggest things
and the brightest ones
floating and refusing to budge.

Some day your stability
with implode upon itself,
and if it dies bright
then it will be swallowed by the void;

but if, in your sights,
its dimness brings you joy
it will birth a dwarf
for you to morph
into your soul and mind
and in your conscience you will find
a desperation that comes
with palms and thumbs
weeping for you

when you don’t want to

when you can’t

and then they will tear
tear
tear
tear.

and bend.
and tether.
and do whatever
it is you refuse:

so wipe them on your jeans.
and keep marching.

and hope for the day you explode.