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.