Six Ways of Looking at Hands

Holding your head up
as the droning eases its way
into your ears.
These lessons don't tell you
anything you want to hear.

Clasped together in your lap;
your leg shakes the chair rhythmically.
Fears wash over you
and you pray the lines don't flatten.

Shoved in tight pockets of trousers,
and the trains roll by.
The stuffy scent of underground life
is enough to constrict anyone.

Moving along keys, strings, everything.
The music echoing from the instrument
silences the people.

Placed still on her thigh.
Keeping this moment
forever
is your goal.

Ink dried onto fingertips
at birth,
Showing how different
we truly are.

Untitled

It's a new day,
but everything is still the same.
The things you said last night
collect in my mind once again,
stifling my chance to move on.
I'll tell you I'm better,
that I overreacted,
just so it will end.
But deep inside of me
I hear the sting of those words
numbing my entire body.
You choose not to apologize,
while I stumble over the
"I'm sorrys" every few seconds
for no reason at all.
Don't worry, though,
I wasn't expecting you to do anything
at all.

Out of Sight

You see her face,
covered in a smile.
No one would think
that anything is wrong.
Sometimes, a glimmer of depression
will peek out of the mask
she put on in the morning.

But no one notices.

She laughs at the jokes told
at the expense of people who are different:
Slut, emo-kid, preppy know-it-all,
bitch, dyke.
"That's so gay," she'll comment,
as her hands grasp
the long sleeves that hide her truth.
She knows that telling anyone who she really is
would ruin her life in this hell-hole.
So she locks up her feelings
and saves them for home.

That's when it starts:
I haven't cried in years, she thinks.
Slowly, not-so steadily,
her skin is met by cold steel
and warmth pours from the new openings
added to an old collection.

Her parents aren't home.
Or rather, they are and they just
don't bother.
She doesn't even care.
All that matters
is how much she wants to feel:
the caress of someone who
actually loves her,
the tingle inside that happens when
she truly laughs for the first time,
the touch of a parent who
wants to keep her safe from harm...

Her parents won't find her
until it is too late.
For once, mother will utter the words
"I love you" to the limp body on the ground.
The father? He'll just stand there and say,
"She brought it on herself..."

Three Ways of Looking at Breasts

Different shapes and sizes,
colors and textures.
All are unique
and speak of only what they know.

Once objects of affections,
health is lost to disease.
Rip apart their pride,
and take all that's left of me.
They bear the violent scars of success.

My favorite part of you:
Nothing can stop us
from moving on,
not even a pair of
beautiful disasters.