Square Hands

October 17, 2010
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I trace you, neat nails, in half moons,
where white turns grey
from the dirt you collect travelling
in the valley of my hand .

You invite me into your open palm.
long lines, with
Crooked crevices that
fall into your heart, beating beautiful
soft songs.

But, your hand, square in mine
doesn’t fit,
it is not melodious,
and men like you
are unnatural.

Your grin digs into my skin,
ripping red holes into the
apples of my cheeks, and your lips…
a bloody red.





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