Back To My Wrinkling Hands

Back to my wrinkling hands.
They always seem to catch my attention, holding such painful bliss.
If I were to search them, I’d first find that my palms are etched with valleys filled with the ever-troubling, raging seas that seem to complicate what is drowning my world.

The length of my fingers remind me that soon everything ends, but the more lines that are carved into skin, the more it makes for a better story.

But not necessarily by blade, but more so with time and angst,
and the worries of what has been collected and stashed over the years. My nails are just that.
Bitten down and jagged like the rest of what my eyes mistake as real.

Truth. Just like the skin that surrounds what’s left of my discolored nails, circling and suffocating. Catching myself at a standstill halt, my knuckles -mountains of anxiety- throws me on my back, exposing sensitivity far beyond what embarrassment can withstand; my neck
 breaking from their height.  A desert to my weary feet, the tops of my hands run almost flat and dry; the infinite longing of wanting closure.

Back to my wrinkling hands.
They always seem to catch my attention. They always seem to remind me of what was, what is, and what’s to come of my life.

Reviews

[Suze]

Wonderful! Comes full circle quite beautifully.