Hands

Let no wandering eyes guide your healing,
Do not place your self-worth in the hands of men whose fingers are creased from the glass they break
Your enemy and true love share the same name,
you will never know who answers when you call.

Don’t catch a gentle breeze on the wrong day,
for that is how tornadoes are born.
The loose grip that c
caresses your spine,
breaks your back.
Less like the god that molded you,
more like the psychic that cursed you,
more like the devil tempted you.
The gentle hold at your cheek can struggle your neck.
His poetry less like the poetry I wrote him into,
more like the typos and syntax that makes my verse.
Shaped verses in the hope of unchained melody.
Threw plates at my head and knives at my back.
The hands that drew heaven in my head,
painted hell in my heart.
You are the reason,
I don’t do handshakes.
The reason I shiver when they hold my neck.
The reason I don’t see waves the same.
The reason I second guess, first impressions.

I healed myself from my healer.
A doctor that doctored herself.