diishh

2003:
My palms are galaxies.

In elementary school, we used to play this game where we thought that the length of a crease in our palm could tell us how long we’d live. And Roxanne said that my measurement was 83 years, and I had nothing to fear; somehow we were fortunetellers at age nine, and we had the stars aligned in our favor, acting saviors for each other innocently breathing whittled prayers of a soft future.

My nails are small.

Bitten down from the divorce, and resting jagged in their beds kind of like my breathing under the sheets the nights they used to fight.

I wasn’t the kid that blindly trusted anything; they said they loved each other and I never took I love you’s for granted, I never take I love you’s for granted, I guess you could say I was raised with a lot of fight in me.

In 2009:
I adopted a scar under my right ring finger.

My aunt gave me a purity ring on my birthday and the next day I jumped off a ten-foot chain-link fence, and forgot to take the ring with me so it hung me up before it let me down. We laugh about it now, I promise to not let a boy penetrate my youth as I explain how his lips would never be soft enough to match mine, and how we all missed all the signs:

bruised knuckles and sore joints from training in the art of self-defense, scarred wrists and skateboarding dislocations, resilient bones from holding myself together all this time.

My hands, they hold storylines.
Worn and calloused, carrying every expectation like a balancing act, sweating and slippery until each one of them dropped. They dropped, and in 2012 I was diagnosed with depression, and life placed a pill on my skin instead, and no one said that it was going to be this hard, and no one taught a tired soul that if you grip a shard loosely then it doesn’t bleed so much, no one said that it was okay to not be okay, so I said nothing—

And I write.

I write jaded promises for a future that is nothing if not soft.
I write to live at least 83 years because I’ve made it past eighteen and there’s so much I haven’t seen; because I have dreams, and hopes, and I’ve never been kissed in a rainstorm or worn an achievement on my arm like it was a medal of my character, because

the date and year has yet to come when this girl, she will come along and she will steal my breath away and give it back in an intoxicating whisper that she loves me; and my God, when it does, I swear I will do everything in my power to clench my fists and believe her.

I will write about each facet of her beauty that she can’t see in her own reflection. About how I wish I could inject her touch into my skin like ink to outline every crease as a plot line to a poem that’s yet to unfold in her name. That her name sets syllables on my tongue that have never tasted so sweet, and how my pallet could get used to it forever. I’ll use my fingers to trace her skin, hold her close and curl within, sighing to the rhymthic undertone of how my name sounds leaving her mouth before dawn. When I wake, I’ll write our love out in pen, therein preserving heaven by right hand, and implore that somehow a moment’s permanence might just withstand.

December 15th, 2013:
I will write until the time runs out,
until my grip gives out. I will live, and I
will fight, and I will love.

I will always use both of my hands.

"Hands," -Valentina Thompson (via theseoverusedwords)