My hands are a masterpiece
Not perfect, but a masterpiece

They hold with fragility,
Move with vibration

My hands are never steady
Unless you count being at rest

My hands sleep at night
Just like the rest of my body

My hands are different than others
They always look nervous, they always seem anxious

They write with patience and pride
Holding the pencil with four fingers gripped on to it

Because that teacher in 2nd grade once said,
“That’s not how you hold a pencil”

But the way they hold the pencil feels right,
It feels comfortable

So the fingers wrap around the wood
And the words begin to appear

My fingers are circus performers
Unbalanced, walking on a tight rope

Trying to stay still
They swing back and forth

My hands are tapping to a song
But there’s no music playing.