hands

They aren’t delicate like her mother’s

Or her sister’s

Or her cousin’s

Not even her damn brother’s.

They were big and manly and rough

Ugly

Her hands weren’t those of an artist

A writer, or pianist

Her fingers weren’t long and thin and pretty

They were short, creased, and round.

No amount of cheap rings that left her fingers blue-green could change it

They were what they were

What she hated to admit

Hands like her fathers.

Just like she had his eyes, nose, and pink skin.

And look what they created!

Jesus fuck, it’s atrocious.

There’s no loopy, girly penmanship on her pages

Ink and lead smeared words together

Stained her hands, giving them a metallic gleam

The letters curved awkwardly in odd places

U‘s were V‘s

V‘s were U‘s

Us became versus, versus became us

It was all a messy shit show

And, honestly

She could go on and on about the unfair treatment of left handers

The injustice with which they dealt with all their lives

But frankly,

She’s tired of looking at the mess on her page.

……………………………………………………………….

This is something different for me. I went to a Richard Garcia reading last night and was very intrigued by his style. He writes a lot on objects. He told us of this interesting prompt: Write about your hands. Then, go back and write about your handwriting. I thought I’d give it a try. I encourage any writer to do it! If you do, send it to me or something so I can read it (not quite sure how that works but if you have any clue, please share).

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Wednesday, February 22, 2017//12:21 am

You criticized my art. No,  no. Not critiqued. Criticized. As if my art was unimportant. Insignificant. As if my voice didn’t deserve to be heard.

You expected me to sit by submissively as you told me my dreams were unachievable. You expected me to agree, as I always did. To nod my head and look away quietly. Giving my consent to tear down my hopes. Giving my consent to enforce my anxieties and fears.

No one should be told that what they want is wrong. But, no, that didn’t stop you from pushing me down. From doing so to people like me, who scream through pen on paper, through paint on canvas. Who bleed ink through the wounds you make. Who cry for art.

Art isn’t unimportant. Written words aren’t silent. And, you aren’t forever.

If only I had realized that before you let the doubt in.

sweet words

I’ve yet to grasp the idea that I don’t become beautiful when someone tells me I am. The idea that I am not beautiful because someone tells me so. The idea that I already was and still will be when those words lose their luster.

So, why do I seek them? Why do I yearn for those words, so sugary sweet, to drip from their lips?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

I just finished reading Milk and Honey and this was kind of inspired by some of the things she said in there. A fantastic collection of thoughts, in my opinion.