May 2008 Creative Writing
Both hands are hanging
empty
at my sides.
My steps are quick and purposeful:
Just get to class.
My enviously green eyes catch
cuddles
and nuzzles
and other things I don’t have.
It seems like every other hand in the world
has someone else’s in it.
Every finger woven into a safe embrace
except mine.
The only things my hands hold
are pencils during the day and my
wet face at night.
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