Strange Hands
"Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey. At other times, it is allowing another to take yours."-Vera Nazarian
I look at my bony witch-hands. Odd ones that are too long and bendy.
They contort like Houdini's.
They contort like my hopes for love; shapeshifting out of handcuffs every time.
They twist and conform to lies; theirs and mine.
They look graceful at first glance--then they shift again and escape.
They are too flexible to hold other hands.
They are too changing to expect the hands of others to meet.
They reach out longingly and miss the outreached hands trying to meet deformed.
I moved strangely.
Too strangely.
Too much. All of the time.
I can't touch their hands.
I wish they had.
But no hands have ever truly reached the strangeness of mine.
2020
About the Creator
Vivian Clarke
Third-culture-kid-now-adult with a melancholic disposition trying to make sense of life, like anyone else.
I live for my daughter, cats, and coffee.
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