Hands: Full on frontal meat globs with sausage fingers.
Hand: Soggy paper cliche of what is too come.
Handed: The part of the poem where a simple 'touch' burns.

It's another draw of the cigarette, another sip of kidney failure
Oh, My Bad. That's something insulting.
Another sip of alcohol.
Another reason for blame.
Another for actions.
Another for...

Hands: Full frontal meat glob for the service of grabbing
Hand: Soggy paper cliche for letting go
Handed: The part where you try to say no

Things are better in Cliche's