make soft my hands, my heart, my mind and my skin
make me putty to your sculptors hands, let me be moulded by your
hands, hands, hands,
hold me, and i, you
like lovers, creatures, artists
knead my bones til they're dust, hold my shattered frame and with broken fingers i will caress your cheek
how destruction is a parent to creation
make me complicit, make me yours
hold me in your eyes and put me in a frame
you infallible lover, how i crumble under your gaze
how mystifying that your fond look
melts me
and you cradle me, you comfort me
how limp i am and you the cause
your nimble fingers, always too fast and your
hands, hands, hands,
to hold and to break—
how their conflicting purposes are the same
veins like valley, callouses like mountains,
knuckles swollen and bloodied
let them stroke my cheek then break it
your hands, so worldly and cosmic,
let them shake me as life does
my darling (for that is what you are)
hold me
let the bands of silver soothe my burning skin,
let the canyons of your palms rest against mine,
let our fingers thread together
let us push impossibly close,
til the putty i am
captures even the thinnest, most shallow ridges of your skin
and that one scar on your left thumb you got when you were small
let me know you
reflect you
i can be your muse
i can be your paint
touch my skin, hurt it, and hold me in your
hands
hands
hands
A/N- haha this wasn't meant to be this, intimate, ig? or violent, really. interpret how you'd like, though, ive got to reread othello act 2 lmao
also, just to clarify—it's a poem about characters not me, but can't let allo people have all the poems about secs now can we?
may delete at some point
YOU ARE READING
The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
PoetryI write poetry and use writing prompts and start stories, chances are they'll be one of three things: simple, artsy, pretentious. All of them will be pretty bad. Bad art is better than no art, though, and more people need to let themselves make bad...
