ink flows out of my brain
through my blood vessels
to my soft fingertips.
my hands curl into fists
as I crumple a sheet of paper.
a corner lightly cuts my finger,
and the ink flows onto the page.

Her hands are delicate from the burden she carries,
The lines seen on her palms trace journeys her ancestors traveled for her to be here today,
Her fingers grasp the pen firmly as she strokes a new narrative into existence,
Rings sparkle in the light with each motion as a symbol of sovereignty and culture,
Mehndi celebrates her heritage in a bashful pursuit for representation,
A female successor in the works,
Breaking the norms and defining her identity one step at a time.

Sometimes I wish for a war
So I could hold your velvet hands in mine
Wrap my arms around you maybe for the last time
Have an excuse to tell you how I feel-
Tell you that your smile is sometimes the only reason I’m still here
That your kind words light up every part of my soul
That you are what makes me whole.
I want to hold your face and say your name
And tell you it will be okay
That even though the world around us crumbles,
I will stay.
I will listen to your fears,
Hold all of your tears,
And love the heart you wear on your sleeve.
Sometimes I wish for a war
So I could hold your velvet hands in mine
Wrap my arms around you maybe for the last time
Have an excuse to tell you how I feel-
You are
What makes me whole.

lover, take my hand
let me love you inside and out
with your flaws and fears and faults

how could this be wrong
everything is telling me this is right
my heart tells me you are the one

rock my world to its very core
they say the problem is we are too young
my heart says we are old enough to be in love

however hard it might have been for us
God or gods must have planned soulmates
it feels like we were always meant to be

be my lover, be my one, i love you
you who are so beautiful
the moon pales in comparison

come, hold my hand, my lover
give me your heart and i'll offer you mine
let us be alone together, tonight

come here. i’ll wrap myself around you
most of the time i’m sure i’m a sliding glass door
obvious like a schoolgirl crush
never able to hide the pink in my cheeks
or bury the truth behind enough broken parables
i’m about as vigilant as a chihuahua
perched on top of a sofa barking at the mailman
forgetting for a moment that you could pick me up
and put me down on the floor but
i promise i’ll just jump back up again
never fully accepting the plainness of my bluff
the winters crack my knuckles but
i don’t want to buy another pair of gloves
i’ve got ripped fingernails turned ******
and a kitchen sink full of unwashed mugs
and you’re pulling my hands away from my face
trying to show me how much we look the same

I run my fingers everywhere,
Well, almost everywhere.

They dance along your back in reassurance,
Seek shelter in the comfort of your own,
Press matter to matter to confirm your existence,
Wring the day’s dripping tension from your back,
And shoulders, and feet.

In the mornings they profusely itch,
Until they get the chance to text you good morning,
In the afternoons they gnawingly ache,
Until they’re knocking at your door.
But mostly, in the evenings they joyously sing,
Home once again wrapped up in yours.

I run my fingers everywhere,
Well, Mostly everywhere.

But mostly, they strain to breaking
Reaching out to you.

I saw your hands today
For the first time in what felt like forever

Those strong hands that held mine while I jumped over puddles
Caught me whenever I was about to fall
The hands that built houses and fixed everything --
Broken pipes, dead cars and crocodile tears

I saw your hands today
But they weren't really your hands
Just another dad's of another daughter's

But God, they reminded me of yours

***** Hands
Are they clean?

Pontius Pilate, washing those hands that night, now are the filthy deeds made white!

America, do tell about the politicians blind-eyed toward homeless people in the streets, tell me about children starving to death?

Does a wealthy man cleanse hiimself as the blood leaves his hands?

Banning guns & glocks, as girls
are sold into slavery, in the blocks.

A gift for kids to go to school
It's not a gift to get shot up.

From poverty to bullies to school shootings, Mrs. Liberty has lost her footing.

When we go home, locking doors and turning the noise up, is washing of the hands with soap, making us whole?