until our hands are gnarled like ginger roots
i count the lines in my hands,
like i’m trying to memorize quadratic formulas,
and when to set x equal to y and z.
i look for answers between my index finger
and the veins in my wrist.
i think of “i know you like the back of my hand”,
and how i’d like to know you that well one day,
but right now i’m still memorizing my own palms -
the curvature of the skin below my pinky,
the vulnerability of thumb meeting forearm —
i trace left hand against right,
try to scrape out the truth that’s caught
beneath my fingernails,
find something worthwhile to show you.
i placate myself with a hammer to my joints,
beating out the good, the bad, and the ugly,
until I am raw and listless —
it is here, in blood and bonemeal,
that you can find me,
smaller than a notch on a bed,
waiting to be held.