Let the Rope Burn Heal

The lines on my hands are evidence

That my fists have been squeezed shut before I ever tasted air

I was exercising my grip before there was anything yet to hold

 

Most of my life, my fists have been clenched:

On the boy I swore I'd always love, my well-planned future,

My justified bitterness, my forlorn dream

 

The lines on my hands are photographs of things desired

And evidence that maybe the thing I really want is control,

And a promise that I won’t be left lonely

 

There are too many things I have held so tightly

That they could no longer breathe

And they suffocated inside my very arms,

where I thought I could preserve them

 

Stop for a second and feel

the opening

and closing

of hands

 

Like a camera shutter, and blinking of eyes

Hands are for giving gifts and for opening them

Spread your fingers. Let the rope burn heal.