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by Bet Yeldem

I stare at the lines
on the palms of my hands --
remember the words you said --
see my reflection in every twist and turn
until each crevice becomes a canyon
in the dark.

My hands are shaky and cold.
They sing your name
when I am sleepless, clinging to the pillow beside me.

Today is my birthday.
My age shows with the texture of my skin...
I buy hand cream now
trying to escape the inevitable changes;
Yet some things remain the same.

When I'm bored, these hands fidget.
When I'm nervous, they sweat.
When I'm lonely, they always scream for you.

I struggle with the knife I hold --
this ink blade that seeks to cut out my heart
and mail it to you
beating and bleeding in black and white
just to know you're holding it
in your hands.


Posted on 07/05/2002
Copyright © 2024 Bet Yeldem

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