MY HANDS, THE SURVIVORS.
You see these hands?
They aren’t mere hands.
They are survivors.
They have survived, the loss of the touch. Of those who they loved to stick on.
They have survived, holding of knife at one and cutting the other.
They have survived, the etch of pain, sadness, memories, and failures.
They have survived, the rotting of newly blossomed flowers, with their touch.
And I make a solution of all these,
Mix it with my tears, and rub it on my face.
I Carry that face which beams pain.
Carrying the darts of positivity etched on my skin by others.
Preaching peace, although knowing, I myself won’t have it.
Spreading love, even when I don’t feel a brink of it.