The voices in my head
told me, today
they want to see other people
and I don’t know
if I should be jealous
or happy
because I have been wanting
to hear new voices
for quite a while.

For a thousand-thousand years
my hands have held tightly
holding weapons of self-destruction
or bouquets of hope
squeezing the cold and unresponsive hands of life lost too soon
clawing at dark and imaginary walls
prisoners of silent screams echoing through time.

My hands have caused pain,
and they’ve soothed wounds.
My hands have been instruments of wonder, building legends from mist and recording prophecies in stone.

My hands have been unwelcome guests in my own pockets, useless and despised.

Given a true purpose my hands become valuable, irreplaceable tools.

My hands had never touched a home
until the day my secrets poured through the gate they formed over my face, and into…