Journal 3

Hands

I remember my hair was soft as goose down,
My nails were uneven, bitten into jagged, rocky hills. My
Arms, once able to lift the world as though it were a water pail, Balanced carefully on my hip
Now pinned to my side like a lamb tied to the fence post
Pre-slaughter. I struggle like a
Fox caught in a hunter’s carefully placed snare
Breath that smells of liquor and lust rests on my face like
Mud clings to the sow’s belly,
Sour like buttermilk.
Hands. Rough hands, not like the comforting
Solidity of tree bark, but sharp and cold like the creek in winter,
Hands.


I remember my hair was soft as goose down
My nails were uneven like a page ripped from the spine of a worn book. My arms, once able to lift the world like a mother lifts her crying infant
Now pinned to my side like a spider’s silk encases its prey, I
Struggle like a kite, powerless against the wind
Breath that smells of liquor and lust rests on my face like a heavy morning fog spreads across a lake,
Rotten like boiled eggs left out out too long.
Hands. Rough hands, not comforting like the
sandpaper of a cat’s tongue, but sharp and cold like scrap metal,
Hands.