If my hands could sing,
they'd chant a thousand things,
and they'd whisper to you why
the caged mockingbird sings,
as you'd accuse them of telling a lie.
If my heart could break,
it'd break evenly
delicately and womanly,
into four equal pieces
tearing along the creases.
If my mind could write,
it'd have terrible penmanship,
break a dozen pencil tips,
and not comprehend
the permanence of the pen.
they'd chant a thousand things,
and they'd whisper to you why
the caged mockingbird sings,
as you'd accuse them of telling a lie.
If my heart could break,
it'd break evenly
delicately and womanly,
into four equal pieces
tearing along the creases.
If my mind could write,
it'd have terrible penmanship,
break a dozen pencil tips,
and not comprehend
the permanence of the pen.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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