I get mad at my hands a lot. I remember
how they would struggle to contort
themselves and my shoe strings and how
for so long I was embarrassed by the
laziness of my fingers. They would never
tie double knots right—always strangling
my feet—took forever to finally prevent the
slow untying loops of lace into loosely
tangled treble clefs

or my ampersands: their shapes like ******-up
figure-eights, always ending up in between
important words. And for what it’s worth, it’s a
conjunction that looks weak and rushed, which
makes it easier to look at because I don’t love
you. Even in Times New Roman it feels this way,
it looks the same: just as tired, as it tries to
keep us tied together by taking empty space
between our names—I hope you mind the gap
when I’m gone; it’s my hands I blame.
You never did anything wrong.