ViperStripes

and violence is learned

I wonder who taught me best

to hate myself

before anyone else

This is the part no one talks about:

existing in the space between grief and growth,

where words without forethought are caustic

and I fear another tragedy,

my life becoming a divine comedy—

god’s joke and punchline—

with standing room only

But joy comes in the morning;

from body to mind

from steel to citrus

from sorrow to whatever is after

I sit in my own dark

with the feelings,

and the callousness,

and the fear,

and the coldness of my own hands.

I sit,

and I sit,

and I sit

and wonder

what birds dream about

in the space between

But joy comes in the morning

and so do birds,

so whatever they dream,

it must be enough;

my fingernails traced the valleys of your hand,

creating invisible lines

and willing new paths into existence.

The curl of our hands as babies

and the strength with which we held our mothers

does not define our life span

or with how much vigor we will live

and love.

I am no oracle,

no miracle worker,

no witch of the woods from the stories,

but I know intention,

and how to unwork curses

placed upon you by a world

that claims to know you better than yourself.

Open your hands,

I will dethread those lines,

and sew them into a winter hat

so the only time you will mull over your death

is when the trees, too, are nothing but bones

to keep you company.

When spring arrives

and the world is budding,

you can remove it,

breaking your own curse

with the hands you thought were your damnation.

I am no oracle,

no miracle worker,

but if you place your hands on me,

I will help you smother those lines

and create new ones

simply because I, too, once held my hand

in a tiny fist and wanted

all that the world could give me.

Our spring is coming.

Meld your lines against mine.

We will make fools of the Fates

who cannot see where one path begins