Your hands are weapons that know no mercy You bring them to your face and draw a map I trace the ridges, the bridges, the mountains The clumps of skin that crisscross on your mouth
I’m holding on to specks of dust of what remains of my weakened self And I hope when I cry, you’ll hold on to my tears ‘Cause little sailors will be sailing on their tides
i’m no outcast in these woods, where the people who belong are shunned, permitted no entrance to what is sacred and preserved only to those who understand what it feels like to be dismembered at the waist