i fear that my hands
that have grown fond of harming me
with each fingertip possessing a consciousness
filled with nothing but their malevolent ideals
in liaison with my brain, at war with my heart and soul
they coordinate attacks at their foes through various addictions

they sharpen the blade to inflict the wounds
they strike the spark to ignite the butane
they pour yet another, despite the bartenders regards
they point at my faults, and instruct my brain to inflate my thoughts with self hatred

but foolish they are for they ought to realize
that coupled with the way of their wicked acts
is the killing of the being they serve
because even though mentally interwoven
paradoxically, their choices bleed back on them
hellbent on their prospect of rushing my inevitable demise
when time could be better spent
Heavenbent on bending my hands to paper to forge poetical lines instead of scars