These hands will destroy me one day.
They write the words on this paper,
tease music from any instrument they lay themselves on.
They prepare the food that keeps others alive,
they soothe the pain they've caused,
but only sometimes.
And one day they'll turn the volume up
on the songs that drive me insane,
write the wrong words,
play the wrong tune,
beat themselves black and blue
against the walls that make up my mental prison.
I bite my nails to the quick,
pull the skin from my cuticles with my teeth
until they bleed.
In return they won't wipe my tears away
they tear at my hair,
my face,
my arms and legs
Until I'm torn to shreds the same way they are.
And one day these wretched hands will be the death of me.