hands

 i think my fingers itch to write

or itch to do evil, as it were

they certainly are idle playthings, 

and i don't know what to do with them

besides placing them in my pockets, 

crumbling up my fists and papers, 

and going home. 

home is a strange word to me, 

it really has no meaning. 

i never feel safe or seen in my home, 

i never feel alive. 

i don't know who i am and i don't know why i'm asking, 

when there will be no response but the dripping kitchen sink and the tick of my 

alarm clock. 

going off in the morning, 

how hateful is the sun. 

i don't want to wake up, 

i want to roll over and smother myself in my own sheets. 

i keep telling myself this isn't a tragedy. 

i am neither hero nor villain, nor lovable sidekick, 

but yet my fingers shake with rage and desire, 

i don't know who will hold me back when i cannot. 

my goddess, why did you have to do me like that, 

why did you leave me like this, 

why? 

why indeed, why anything, 

why, nothing. 

no reason. :P

no notes left behind, no letters to follow, 

only the clock ticking in the hall, 

only my bag at the door, 

only your footprints on the walk and nothing more. 

 

"your pain is funny to me. 

your pain is my fortitude, it brings me up, 

lifts me above my own body,

and above my house,"

i used to dream i had wings

but you took that all away

 

and now i'm glossing over the pain, 

i'm letting go of things that gave me motive, 

to breathe, to do anything, to work 

(god knows it's hard to convince me to do that). 

 

i'm running away, as usual, 

and filling your footsteps as I walk, 

wearing your mannerisms like a mask, 

I have no face of my own and I don't talk, 

I don't speak without you, 

I am a child. 

 

i think my fingers itch for yours 

(wrap it up, we've come full circle)

and "this person that broke your heart can't have been so bad

that you're still writing poems where their name is everything but stated

that you're still heaving dry on the carpet 

where their shoes left the barest marks, 

that your body fits only half the bed, 

and that you fit only half of yourself

inside your body,"

 

there will be no response to the unwise message but a simple "Seen," 

and nothing but the rain on your roof as you sip your tea and wait, 

the candlelight illuminates pages of dedicated work, 

heartbreak's so aesthetic 

 

and, reaching out to no one, my fingers twitch