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sofia-paderesPoems
I have hands that won’t keep to themselves. They are always rummaging and dancing and clapping and snapping and opening and closing and trying to fix every single broken thing they can find. And that includes you. My heart is a bottomless pit for aches. Not mine, but yours. It’s almost a cursed thing, how despite its size being only that of my fist, my heart always finds a way to squeeze in some new hurt into the spaces that before you, I never knew existed. There they stay; and like all things that stay, with enough time, become part of their surroundings. I can’t tell whose cut is whose anymore. Put me in a room full of people. Blindfold me. Spin me like a tornado. Make me stop. My outstretched fingers will be reaching for the most broken souls in the room. Call it compassion. Kindness. Empathy. Whatever you like, but there is a fine, fine line between that and the way I bleed. Oh, how I bleed. Forgive my boldness when I say I won’t even try to make you understand the fact that I do somehow understand. Think of it this way: ripples. And I always get the last one. I’m still a child. I like to play pretend. I’m a doctor. I’m a superhero. I’m the one with all the answers, all the weapons, all the magical cures. Take that! And that! Ha! Aha! Ha! Ha… Ha. As the years wear on, I see that my tools aren’t right, and that my cape is too tight around my neck. I don’t have all the answers. No weapons. No magical cures. I’m just a girl trying to play the part that was never hers. And it’s taken me three volcano boys, a couple of glass-bottomed hearted girls, and just about the rest of the world to realize that I am not the Savior. My hands were not made to heal every heart they rest themselves upon, or to fill that vacuum inside every man, one that nothing, nothing, nothing in this world will ever make whole. So here. I let go of every burden that’s been causing me to stoop and to stumble, every pressing weight that’s been keeping me from keeping faith, every heavy yoke that’s been causing me to choke on things I never should have let in in the first place. Yet I will continue to love you. I have come to learn that love has a lot of ugly before it becomes beautiful, a lot of hurt before healing’s arrival, a lot of you before any of me. My part is done. These fidgety fingers no longer carry suffering. Here, let me see yours, though battle scarred and bruised. You’ve been bearing more than you were built for, beloved. I think it’s time to surrender.
0
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Hands
I have hands that won’t keep to themselves. They are always rummaging and dancing and clapping and snapping and opening and closing and trying to fix every single broken thing they can find. And that includes you. My heart is a bottomless pit for aches. Not mine, but yours. It’s almost a cursed thing, how despite its size being only that of my fist, my heart always finds a way to squeeze in some new hurt into the spaces that before you, I never knew existed. There they stay; and like all things that stay, with enough time, become part of their surroundings. I can’t tell whose cut is whose anymore. Put me in a room full of people. Blindfold me. Spin me like a tornado. Make me stop. My outstretched fingers will be reaching for the most broken souls in the room. Call it compassion. Kindness. Empathy. Whatever you like, but there is a fine, fine line between that and the way I bleed. Oh, how I bleed. Forgive my boldness when I say I won’t even try to make you understand the fact that I do somehow understand. Think of it this way: ripples. And I always get the last one. I’m still a child. I like to play pretend. I’m a doctor. I’m a superhero. I’m the one with all the answers, all the weapons, all the magical cures. Take that! And that! Ha! Aha! Ha! Ha… Ha. As the years wear on, I see that my tools aren’t right, and that my cape is too tight around my neck. I don’t have all the answers. No weapons. No magical cures. I’m just a girl trying to play the part that was never hers. And it’s taken me three volcano boys, a couple of glass-bottomed hearted girls, and just about the rest of the world to realize that I am not the Savior. My hands were not made to heal every heart they rest themselves upon, or to fill that vacuum inside every man, one that nothing, nothing, nothing in this world will ever make whole. So here. I let go of every burden that’s been causing me to stoop and to stumble, every pressing weight that’s been keeping me from keeping faith, every heavy yoke that’s been causing me to choke on things I never should have let in in the first place. Yet I will continue to love you. I have come to learn that love has a lot of ugly before it becomes beautiful, a lot of hurt before healing’s arrival, a lot of you before any of me. My part is done. These fidgety fingers no longer carry suffering. Here, let me see yours, though battle scarred and bruised. You’ve been bearing more than you were built for, beloved. I think it’s time to surrender.
A spoken word poem written for Atlas, The Polaris Project's event for Imaginarium Manila. We were asked to write a poem of three to five minutes with the theme "Weights: Literal, Figurative, What Have You”. video link- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2vWyLCM4KE soundcloud- https://soundcloud.com/sofiyichka/hands
sofia-paderes
Written by
sofia-paderes
Filipino
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
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