Is there anything special about my hands?
They are green with watercolor tonight.
Green with flower stems,
fading into petal-pink.
I can never get that part right.
My colors like to bleed.
But that’s alright I guess
I do too.

Is there anything special about my hands?
They are pale and shaking tonight.
My fingers are white on the metal
cold razor
warm skin

My fingers must be clutching my heart
because I cannot feel it beat,
and I cannot feel the pain.

There are streaks of pink up my leg now
pink petals sinking down the drain
I suppose I hate that color
and somehow that makes sense.

There is a sand timer on my desk.
It’s midnight.
It’s waiting for me to be done with my words.
Sometimes I wonder if the sand wants to embrace the glass
but cannot find a hold
I wonder if it blames itself or it’s partner
for those 15 wasted minutes
shhhhhhhhhhhhh
it whispers
Tick
Tock
Maybe it’s hissing at me
for needing to write my words
for turning it on it’s head
for making it face defeat.

I am a finger-paint poet
with a horrible day
horrible week
horrible… life
you can stand for a few more minutes I’m sure.
but I should probably say,
I don’t blame either of you.

Is there anything special about my hands?
Maybe they are like the sand,
still searching for a grip.
Maybe they don’t mean to paint me red
but there’s a petal- pink bird captive in my ribcage
and it cannot be allowed to sing.

Is there anything special about my hands?
I’m not even sure why I want to know.
But my palms are grey with words tonight
remembering my past
and there is a pencil clutched in my fingers
ready to write the story
it itches like my petal-pink scars
…maybe that means they’re healing.

And sometimes I feel like I can hear something
under the hiss of my timer
the scratch of my pencil
something that sounds like bird-song
and somehow that makes sense.