The veins on your arms
Remind me of crumpled paper
Which I hold on tight to,
Then loosen my grip,
Smoothing out the imperfect surface.

My eyes follow each string up your arm—
Untying the ribbon like opening a gift—
And back down again, to your fingertips.
My very own quiver
Like the tip of a quill pen.

I notice there are blanks to fill in,
And proceed to write my name
With my finger, onto your palm.
I write something longer,
And it doesn't tickle or bother you.

Then our little fingers wrestle:
it's a strong pinky promise.
We seal it with a swear of the hand,
And a handshake. We hold it in place,
Until our fingers are intertwined.

One more seal, with a kiss this time,
As I bring your hand up to my lips.
I won't let you go now.
This is how I write poetry
With my bare hands.

there are days
i only feel like a burden.
someone who fills backseats
so that someone could be at the front.
and the weight of my own bones
are too heavy for a family name to carry.
heavy enough to crush a sorry girl.
my breaths are sometimes apologies
people refuse to hear.
im sorry if i am this way.
i wish i could be something more.

those slender fingers ache
with frost touched tips
when hands join not
and severance of limb
not of your own body
comes away like snow
falling from the sky
so naturally but so coldly

-

a total instrument package
constructed with all of the
brain's carefully deliberated
intents channeled into them,

one transmits to another what
words will never enunciate
without a multitude of
sentences—

that which spoken
will never touch...



"the hands"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

Success beckons like a flippant ******
offering pure triumph
the nectar of glory flows in her.
Attempting to approach I find I cannot move.
stagnant hands emerge from the depths grabbing my ankles
looking down I see they're my hands
holding my craven climbers in place
I look back at my arms to see my hands missing
who needs Kurt Angle when I can put myself in an ankle lock?

I've got a hold of me and I won't let go
escape attempts are thwarted by preemptive remorse
plunging me deeper into the depths.
The knobs on my arms can't undo the harm
of the disconnected hands of the ******
that paralytically punish
tools supposed to help me give me a belting
while the lady in red leaves disappointed.

Tired of struggling against myself
my third rate fate accepted
I'm learning to love the view from where my hands plant me
no view of outside
at least I can see a window.
                                                         ­                                             
A siren's song echoes in the wilderness distance
beautiful serenades are muffled by walls
muted singing is enjoyed in solitude.

My dismembered hands dig into my brain
until things are rearranged
there's a paradigm shift
a paradox gift
beauty becomes ugly
so no one is above me
I can look in the mirror in the eyes of my peers
and see myself standing alongside them
when they're beauty makes them uglier than me.

They don't know pain
they couldn't understand
plutonium thoughts decay vision
replacing it with radioactive judgment.
I surmise negativity is just part of my personality
I surmise success is a ***** who picks the undeserving more
life goes unexamined
while wondering why insanity swirls.

Nagging depression firmly scratches the back of my brain
all that was avoided punches from the past
an explanation of my condition is given to my mistakes
like a father excusing their son's bad behavior
words fall on deaf ears once deeds have been done

failure doesn't care about my excuses
excuses completing a self-fulfilling prophecy
by hands from the depths burying me stationary.

my fingertips are cold, with slowed movement
and there is a grace to them, dancing in such a sorrowful way
I'd almost think they were longing for someone
to hold them, locking each other, and brushing against

and yet, my mind grows uneasy at that idea of warmth
I draw my frigid hands away, escaping the touch
how unbearable it would be, in all reality
they remain as they are, how i'd prefer, lonely.