have you ever looked at your hands through someone else's eyes? as if the familiar tattoo of blue veins were mountain streams or uncharted maps, crystal clear. the eyes of someone who cannot see the blood on them, as you always will.
walk around like a loaded gun, like an oil drum full of secrets, like a puzzle with half the pieces flipped down and no picture on the box. now, flip them upside, become softer like well-kneaded dough, be accessible and comforting and immeasurably kind. turn your trigger finger into a ring finger, become docile, become boring and, in essence, become a liar. a traitor to the self you first portrayed. a traitor to the one who loved you when you were a wildfire. become ashamed of the grass that grew in the ditch under the old log you tore from the yard when she said she was cold. the log you burned, willingly, and danced in front of the flames. become a traitor to the walls you put up, climb them. open the door. dance in front of the flames, hope your shadow is still beautiful and hands still crystal clear.
crabs do not have spines, they have shells. combine calcium and confidence, raise it like a farmhouse inside of myself. know, deep inside, that i will always be a little raw, a little more sensitive and it will not always be a good thing. make plans for a bay window and eat-in kitchen, occasionally take a lighter to the whole thing and know, deep inside, that it's growing fire-proof.