Hands like wolves

Hands were created for building things, right?
I've learned sometimes before you build something,
you must first destroy something else.
But these wildfires were the ones never supposed to be put out.
Let me burn.

Because their sole purpose is to burn forests to the ground,
transform living things to fertilizer,
making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It's almost paradoxical, that there must be death before birth.

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection,
inside the pool of my best friends' blood.

An old teacher who used to tutor me told me that I was the best one he could have asked for.
He said he would always love me for what I did.
This was before I burned every bridge that filled the gaps between us.
He only liked my words because he thought he knew what they mean
and who were the people I wrote about.

I stared at him from across his desk,
told him that I will never be the one who he wanted me to be.

I told him: "My paths with others will never match. My soul is still a stranger to those who made the same wrong turn."
I told him I wouldn't write for him ever again.
In the middle of our afternoons, when I would mourn over words,
I told him, never again.
Every time I would appear stable,
holding up pencils,
and hissing at the paper.
When he would push me into emotions
I didn't want to repeat;
every time when I would whisper your name to air,
I told myself, never again.

I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home.
In being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations.
I guess I needed to destroy myself first.

I only corrected myself after you spoke,
because
I heard something familiar in your voice.
You were the one that sounded like family.
He sounded like reminding and regret.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen.

I once got my palm read.
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway?
I have defied the odds my entire life.
I've been broken down and built back up
too many times to count.

My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety.
Maybe I enjoy the taste of my own pain.
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself,
just to see what my real fears are.

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook like you, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone, I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.

I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I looked into your eyes, I wasn't afraid.

I need to cook you up a feast of myself,
then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives.
Please tell me what I really taste like,
be honest.

Do I taste like ashes and scars?
Do I taste like shame?

Years after my greatgrandparents passed away,
my grandmother moved into their house.
Since I was 5, every time I spoke to her she asked me: "Darling, did you thank God for waking you up today?"
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves.
It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I'm writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night,
prays that I will get the things I want.

Maybe some kinds of prayers do get answered.
Maybe sometimes two hands in the right position,
matched with a conversation with someone or something,
can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands will evolve into wolves,
become part of a pack and work together
with other hands to make a difference.

Some days they would be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack.
Other days I would need someone to show me the right way to go.
Like you once did.

Because if I’ve learned anything,
it’s that I am not always right.
I can not always be in control of everything.

The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
if my hands were truly
a part of something.
Even if they had to be a part of somebody else.