The Hands
I am scrolling through my phone before I write the stanzas.The Hands post a photo and type a “peace out†caption, deceivingly innocent behind a beanie and acne pocks
The Hands that leaped out from behind mailboxes try to tangle with mine, but this scares me more than the moonlit jump scares of a used-to-be eleven-year-old.
The Hands raise feminism up like a mask, jumping to agree with me, making fun of adds made of misogyny, but the mask comes down and The Hands play dumb.
My lips were stuck together with sticky sleep. So, I didn’t say no. I forgot how and The Hands took snores to mean something they didn’t
Five years ago, I met a little boy with too much energy, his favorite game – annoying me. But the honorary little brother’s crooked smile is gone. Now all he is, is Hands
