I put two of my old poems together. They were both inspired by my hand, written at the age of sixteen, when the nails were clumsily polished blue.
“Unstable”
An arm pointed up, hand petting the air,
Reaches for something that’s never there.
A body lies alone to feel the pain,
Needing to bond, to lose, to gain,
Knowing no one can mend the part that ails.
Puzzled, I notice those aren’t my nails…
Scent of soap, bacteria-free,
Chipped blue shines reflecting me
Ten times.
My hand.
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