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Heartless Hands, Handless Hearts.

My limbs feel like another entity, attached but with no control. They twist and turn, burning and cooling simultaneously. The scoliosis-ridden fan is only useful when I lay back completely. The fabric of my clothes feels wrong. I sense the tag pressing into my back, but when I reach for it, it's not there.

My mouth is open, offering the mosquito a tour instead of letting it bite my hands. It's uncomfortable. It's just not right, but I have to live with it.

I stare at the kettle that hasn't been washed in days and turn away, looking at the ceiling. The cobwebs I've ignored have transformed into cities, with the original web forming a grayish thread hanging precariously. It's mocking me. I have to live with it. That's the way life is for I chose it to be that way. A broom and a shove is all it would take. 

My blogger account shows no new drafts. I understand they don't appear magically, but it turns out people who do the same stuff every day have to keep doing it. Consistency is key, I sleepily whisper to myself, my head lolling from side to side. My eyes are heavy, and all I have is my body.

I can't look away from what I haven't done. I wonder, if such small things are hard to avoid, how does evil live in peace? Does the position provide blinds? Does it make you so comfortable with plush couches that you forget? The privilege of staying silent, of not knowing, of choosing. How one can debate, while for another, it's life.

Just because the chains are made of silk doesn't mean you're free. You might even help tie them yourself. My head aches and my tongue thirsts—for water or answers, I don't know. Water and a pill, I tell myself. Maybe that will tame the madness for a while.

When cups of chamomile don't calm me, what will? I've never known what to do, but my body answers. 

My knees bend and come together, seeking my heart, bones to skin. My left hand wraps around them. My eyes shut, but my heart still beats. I curve inward to shut it all out, but I feel it claw through the flesh. Nails dig into my muscles. 

It births itself as if it knows where it comes from.

When will your heart grow hands?

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