Hands

The hands of OB are cold and sticky,

drawing you in. 

Making you feel comfortable in their web. Handing you whiskey, blunts, and cigs, watching you melt into the sand and disappear. It's easy to break apart when you're made of sea glass. 

The hands of PL are bony and hot,

pushing constantly. Flinging you into a stoic frenzy of papers and quizzes, turning lazy eyes into dark circles, borrowed time into barcodes, student IDs. a human reduced to a GPA. humanity at its finest. 

My hands are rough but small,

used to pulling my hair out and wiping away tears. My fingernails are bitten and my nail polish chipped, the color carefully selected to not make me seem like a certain kind of person, the kind of person who's identity doesn't belong to the sand or the oceans of academia. Someone who belongs to the wind. Strong and purposeful, without having a real purpose. letting things come and go and not stopping. letting pencil blisters form and scribbles on the back of my hand pile up and not stopping. popping pills and joining drum circles, tap tap tapping, slapping away mistaken identities and not stopping til there's nothing between my fingers but air.