Mitts for hands
And I there, enveloped
Helpless and cradled
You sheltered me

Hands holding mine
You, afraid of squeezing
My tiny fingers too tightly,
Led me

Hand eye coordination.
You proved the concept
By making sure your hand
Found my mother's eye, hard.

Hand on my thigh
And every nerve in my body
Fired rapidly
Do not touch me

Guns for hands
You held it in your hand,
Still smoking,
"Wish it was me"

Hands in wrong places
Tell me one thing?
Was she worth it.

Your hands are still as big
And still as forceful

She stares at her plate and decides not to eat
It's about having control she reminds herself
But limiting nourishment is not control

She stares in the mirror and represses emotion
It's about having control she says
But limiting feelings is not control

She withered away to almost nothingness
Hoping the wind would whisk her up
In a cold, empty embrace

She's drunk
She stopped answering
And he's gone to bed
And I
Well
I'll just end up dead.