My control,
My hands.
Slender digits topped with stubby nails.
Soft skin marred by the small ridges of work.
The outline of a pencil impressed upon them.
The slim purple trails of my life blood,
Under my life lines.
They have served me well.
But because of heavy emotion or activity,
They falter.
Minute trembling and jumping of tendons
I watch in horror as they shudder.
If the quaking was permanent,
How would I write?
How would I mend small objects?
How could I grasp another's hand?
Without my hands,
My control.
My hands.
Slender digits topped with stubby nails.
Soft skin marred by the small ridges of work.
The outline of a pencil impressed upon them.
The slim purple trails of my life blood,
Under my life lines.
They have served me well.
But because of heavy emotion or activity,
They falter.
Minute trembling and jumping of tendons
I watch in horror as they shudder.
If the quaking was permanent,
How would I write?
How would I mend small objects?
How could I grasp another's hand?
Without my hands,
My control.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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