Maybe you’re just one of those women who doesn’t get to live.
Maybe you just get to work. Maybe you just get to give and give, maybe
you’ll dig
Full hands deep into your own stomach hunting for passion.
Maybe its an obsession, maybe its madness that you call this depression art.
Forget peace, just try to sleep (enough).
What are these dreams about gardens but a waste?
There’s no building or forming when you’re always working,
What are these dreams about men who communicate (love)?
Forget children, just make sure you have enough (money).

And who told you that all white girls go to heaven?
What’s struggling really, when you’re just a basic t-shirt of an American
woman?
How hard have you tried to drown, really?
Holding your breath all day doesn’t count.
Some girls cut their hands up on purpose. A guitar helps you float to the
surface.
Some girls cut their hearts up on purpose. The calluses will all be worth
it.
The calluses wrap pain up like a nervous
Tick. They fit like a body barrier between everything
And me, or I,
and the customer in front of me
Who looks totally thoughtless on purpose.
Smiling white teeth ordering egg whites.
Makeup layered like acrylics, meticulous Instagram filter of a person.
Kate Spade full wallet holding hands, what is your purpose?

Does anything on earth make you ache
Like I want to ache, like I always ache for hot things like love and art
and riot?
What are words to the wordless?
Show me your nails and then your veins and tell me you don’t want to be
concave.
Tell me your thoughts aren’t insane, not pulling at your throat when you
wake.
Have you forgotten your hands calling, begging you to make, make anything
one of a kind.

Better yet, better you don’t live this life. To be here you must be high or
sedated.
Let your love be as surface level as the golden plated promise shinning
from your finger.
You reach your future out for me to see. You just met and its set blinding,
beautiful.
It scares me that your hands are so fragile and perfect.
I hold it like I’ll hurt it. My callouses rubbing your net-worth makes me
nervous.
I see you women, living without art or mistake.
I see you women, hiding your fat rolls and cakes.
All you ever seem to eat is money. Honey must pour from your matte ruby
lips.

Instead of words and hurt, do you think about your future kids?
Show me pictures of all your gardens. Is your heart just a soft surface,
not calloused and bottomless?
Tell me are your thoughts less on purpose?Are you staying positive?
Does all that positivity ooze from your pores
when you touch, how many times a day are you touched?
How much does it cost to love, effortlessly? How much effort does it take
to remain buoyant?

Dear Rich White hands, is there anything left to hold you back or down?
Is there anything left in life that makes your heart still drown?
Does your mind have a room of its own? Is it storage, is it quiet, is it
void of sound?
What lotion keeps your hands like light feathers?
Is it better to be happy than weathered?
What lotion can I afford for my calloused.
How much does your Naked pallet bring you inner peace?
Does money float hope just enough to sleep?

Tell me the stories of all the hands who have handed you
hundreds of hundred-dollar bills. Kate Spade Barbie, write mean to me your
definition of worthlessness.
Then tell me about your worth and what work soft, clean, claw hands are
perfect for.
Tell me about perfect sleep beside a soulmate.
Tell the hand handing you change
how to change without nepotist step-stool of male money.
Have you ever been actually hungry?
So much that you would eat your own words

For hands that don’t hurt,that aren’t rough or still hurt
for hands that need absolutely nothing.