these hands of mine are capable of
so much poetry and art,
plucking strings,
pressing keys,
and making music,
creating and holding.
i can learn an entire language using my hands. they may someday trace someone else, clothe and feed another. this hand to my left can bare a ring of unity and hold another's.
these hands of mine can do so much, yet i spend my time having them wedged down my throat and scratching my insides, use them
to play with my blood and wipe my tears.
these hands of mine have so much potential,
yet like my whole being they are wasted.