Hopeless

Hope in a hopeless world.

I run my three primary fingers along the prominent tendons in my hand, and revel in the strength of them. Strong muscles, soft skin- warm with life and real as the anguish I feel clanging in my skull like metal scraping across enamel.

I let the winter chill filter into my window, and welcome it warmly until I am numb. It is human. I feel the petals of the garden beneath my fingertips, and watch them come away stained and scarred from thorns and protective edges. Walls, windows, windowsills.

God gave me these hands and I chose to bathe them in agony. Empathy is a torture method best used against oneself: just add one cup hope and three quarters sharp desire and let it fester until you are apathetic and bored with it.

I bleed red, and if you truly took a good look at what I am composed of it is the toxic mixture of seeing the best in smoke and mirrors and shattering till the burn hurts my lungs. But here is a fun idea- pretend I am alien and inhumane to blunt your own sharp edges. After all, you cannot maim what has never felt.