Hands; a poem.

These hands, are not naive.

They know when they hold a heart and a tongue and a throat.

and they refuse to search around in the dark for a closet ,and hand you a noose that you have been waiting to hang yourself on for so long.

They will not push smiles on you until you carve them into the lucky flesh of  your arms and will not leave razor blades on your window sill and and tell you the blood is beautiful.

These hands won’t open hell for you.


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