Hands.
Hands everywhere.
Hands unwashed in lakes of morality.
Hands invading me like bugs.
Hands that shush me, cover my mouth
My teeth are stained with gore and pain.
Their fingers wrap around my waist
And travel, travel, travel South.
Hands that caress my face so gently
Breathing in my midnight skin.
Hands who scatter truth like wind
Of the things they've done so evidently.
Hands that take things, hands that steal
Offering maturity and impurity.
Hands that tell me what nobody knows.
If the hands are lying, what is real?
YOU ARE READING
the veiled lady/hailstones between my teeth
Poetrythere is nothing out there there is nothing beyond this here this is it *** 12/16/23 first book of poetry there is nothing beyond
