My Hands

i’m someone with chewed up nails
with love on the brain
and a slow pen in hand
onerously scratching out my timeline

my fingertips are bitten generic
dented into typicality
they are                   ——-                      different
from all other but somehow they are
the same
…………………………——-………………..insignificant?
my nails won’t ever grow
no color will tint them bright or bold
even polish is …………..indifferent
their future isn’t decided or
——————————————-significant

the hand on which they depend
not ready to leave it’s print in the future’s drying cement

my fingers know they’ll never clasp another hand
never graze the soft skin of potential
they know they’ll just etch
a side story
or rest on keys
playing
plucking a bittersweet tune
stumbling
and stopping

my hands are throbbing
aching with pure want
reaching to catch nothing
clutching at oblivion

my palms are deserted and parched
desirous

my veins are still
and the blood in them
stagnant.