He stretches his arms in my direction

Hands limp and exposing his wrists

Eyes beginning to sweat

He says

“I think my hands are broken

Because they don’t know how to make things”

He begins to tell me how he imagines that he can draw

Anything he wants to

And when he puts pencil to paper

The lines don’t make sense

Or the sculptures he tries to build with play dough

Are mushy

And stupid

And shaped like the insides of his hands

Which are also stupid

He goes to punch the wall and misses

So he tells me that he can’t even break things

His hands are that dumb

Then finally

Because there is nothing left to do

He cries into them

And I wrap my arms around his thin body

And say

“That is a start”