If your giant hands hadn’t burned their warmth around my heart, my egg yolk blood would have spilled out and over beyond redemption.
I would be as numb and stale as the dried pink flowers fading into her tombstone.
My hands would sit idle and useless, and my eyes would be a vacant lot, abandoned and lifeless.
The urgent foreign language of cruelty and oppression would flicker across the screen of Fox News as indecipherable hieroglyphs before my eyes.
I would give my body to anyone who asked, ignoring the venomous effects of lustful intoxication.
I would laugh with my friends, but tears would be pumping through my veins.
I would obediently recite a mantra of justice, love, and helping the poor, but I would treat myself with cruel injustice and self-loathing.
My situation would evoke more pity than starving children, protruding bellies, and skies dense with smoke and sorrow.
All of my knowledge, A’s, and nods of approval would sink like pencil shavings to the bottom of a wasted life.
The pain and hurt would dissolve into emptiness.
If there’s no reason to love then there’s no reason to hurt.
If there’s no reason to hurt then there’s no reason to feel.
Feeling would become a memory like my timid first day of kindergarten or my skeptical, yet steadfast belief in the Easter bunny.
If your giant hands hadn’t burned their warmth around my heart, my egg yolk blood would have spilled out and over beyond redemption.
If it weren’t for You…
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