Twelve

Inside your hands
Each godforsaken plan
I could write shit words
burn all my poetry
But nothing is brighter
than my hatred
for
your hands

I despise them they make me sick
do not understand them make you a man

I must be a prick
To draw blood with my touch

Hold your tongue like you wish to my side
I’ll siphon heartache and dispel it alright
Maybe one day… I’ll fit into your plans hands