The Narrative of Fingertips

I used verbs instead of my hands.

My time to hide and reappear.

My lights would flicker or die.

My body froze and I accepted

What I could. I looked back on

Cancerous hands and gestures and

Whispers and felt that nothing

Would ever be enough, would cure

The images in my head, put into

My skin and everything below the



I would let the girls laugh.

I tortured my body into a

Metamorphosis that was never my own

And yet. My wounds listened to

Everything that was uttered against me.

Salt and blood would linger on my body.

I tried to disappear behind the protective

Projections, would hollow myself out

To fit into the hearts of pedestrians.


You forced me in my place when

Nothing except my subconsciousness

Was awake. I became an adjective for

Your display and disposal, to be twisted

And blown out of proportion.

You made sure that I would feel older

Than my peers. You let me discover the

Language of what happened on my own.


I would stare at the carefree girls,

The sexes of boys, the insatiability,

The cruelty of all erupting from centuries.

You have made me so angry.

I was still a child. I held on to it as much

As I could. I died in the chasm you created.

I became my own disembodiment to satisfy

Your needs and lie to mine. I believed in love

But you rendered me blind to it,

Claiming that I could live without it.


The Temptation of Sir Percival” by Arthur Hacker (1858-1919)

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