wrinkles. crease lines
that deepen then disappear
as I open and shut my
fists to fingers and back again,
ripped cuticles, hangnails,
dried blood, dirt lines
shove them in my mouth,
I taste the grime of my day
and remember that I did
a single ******* thing, and
if it weren't for this bitter taste
I'd forget I'm living, so
I beg the question-- can
I swallow both of my hands
and realize I'm worthy
of being alive? Will
the feel of my years of
survival and trials
be sweet on my tongue?
If I shove my whole arm
down my throat will
I ingest all the lifting and
lowering of my daughter
I've done, and see the
softness with which
I embrace her and all
other tender creatures
besides myself?