Body Parts

All of my love is stored in my hands.

A mother at heart, they

Graze, temper, soothe, love.

I cup my cheeks and stroke my hair the way a lover might.

Smoothing all consistencies, an unlikely medicine.

The knife is something they wield out of love.

Or so I have been told; but I trust them.

I look at the scars and scratches,

Smiling warmly.

They only want what’s best for me.

All of my anguish is stored in my foot-soles,

Bundles of tension twisting, emitting energy.

A barren wasteland of extremities, all has been banished there,

Boring holes of radiation on the surfaces they make contact with.

They are frigid, but never bear arms.

It is a cruel game to play,

My life-force a middleman in a violent war.

Someday I will ease into silence,

Lay peaceful, amputated.

Author’s Note: Thank you again for the support! This is one I wrote a while back about how energy always stores up in my feet and how I can almost feel the tension emanating off of them onto the ground: also about all the times I use my hands for self-soothing (in both helpful and unfortunately harmful ways at times).