My hands are long and thin

My hands are long and thin
My fingers look awfully like legs And my father always told me they were holy,
Made for a musician.

But I'm an arachnophobe, and I slide as slowly and as lightly as I can away from them as they creep over my cello's neck, poison artists breaking skin of mine. I never imagined I could be so afraid of anything. My hand is slender and slimy, it can crawl faster than I can scream- has it seen me? should I run? And the other, so devilishly smooth, and cunning, pulls my bow over my lips, a shriek escapes my strings and I'm lost.





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