Literature
anitya.
my hands are discarded.
they are
throwaways--
negligible in the eyes of
all my fathers,
all my brothers,
all my lovers.
and yet
when my lips touch down to
these stones unwashed
all these halls,
walls,
catcalls--
the scent of this home chills my
senses to the subzero vapor
of all the marrow i share my meals with.
every day i look at
these hands
that aren't strong,
that aren't capable,
that aren't what he wants,
and i cleave them from my mouth,
from my throat
in hopes that tomorrow,
maybe
they'll come back as something better.
they don't.
i wake up and i look at
these hands
that no one wants--
not even me
not