Indented hands
Oh, the freedom…
My hands are completely empty
for the first time in awhile.
I can still see the indents left behind
from a grip that held on
way too tightly
to a version of myself
that was as unflawed and upright
as I could craft.
So it came as a surprise
when I wasn’t good enough for her.
Always two steps behind
flailing along like a tree
struggling to keep its ground in a thunderstorm.
It wasn’t until I felt the pain
of a weakening wrist
that was no longer fit
for the job of keeping myself tethered to such
unrealistic expectations
that I let go.
For snippets detailing my journey as a writer, check out my Substack, A Metamorphasis Journal.
It is a space where my stream of consciousness will meet analyses and just general thoughts on the world and times we are living in. A newsletter where everything from the lessons I pick up in my journey as a writer to the role art plays in our modern society as well as other topics can be found there.
