Contradiction

These hands

Calloused and rough;

A reflection of how I talk and walk,

And never giving anything much thought.

But all at once, over-thinking

And analyzing and calculating, and cold.

But these hands were made to hold,

To care, to pretend like everything inside me isn’t crumbling

To forget for a second, maybe,

That I hate and abhor and love

And adore all at once, and not at all

And my breath

It fills me with something thinner than air;

Emptiness and loneliness and then

I stare until my eyes dry and my eyelids droop

And there

On your face, your cheeks, your lips

Your eyes, I search for life;

Anything, really. A spark, a lie.

Whatever it is that gets you by.

But pretend

That these hands, calloused and rough

Were not so for just a few minutes-

Even a second would suffice.

Pretend they are soft and warm

Like the stuff that fills my soul,

And the stuff that forces these words

Abrasive, yet humble

Alive, yet not so.