Cage

I always had issues with people touching me.  Mainly on my hands and feet. So much so that I start to shake when they’re on me and I don’t want them to be.  Hands make me feel unsafe, trapped, insecure, caged. I’ve had more hands be hurtful than gentle with me, which is perhaps why I have such an issue with seeing these amazing devices as ones of evil qualities.  I wish I could see them as ones of gentle strength at all times. Yet they always appear as dirty creatures coming to steal something they have no claim over. So I run. Or fight. Or cower. Usually all three in different orders.  It’s most often impractical. It leads to a lot of unrelenting feelings that are then only exposed out of my hands and feet. Part of the reason I run. Part of the reason I punch. The trapped sensations in my extremities grow and blossom from deadened dirt, watered by punishment.  

Hands become my cage and they always find me.  They scare me more than anything in this life. The two things that leave me feeling the most powerless.  Hands that hold the entirety of a human beings emotions and the complete capacity to carry out humans’ reactions, willing or unwilling.  The horridness of human hands.

The beauty of human hands.  I have experienced deep love and gratitude through hands.  Deep joy and excitement. Deep strength. Hands, when utilized to their full capacity of greatness, grow out of a soil so rich it doesn’t need sun or water to sustain itself. Simple human cells.  The uniqueness of fingerprints. The loveliness of holding new life in hands. Tiny fingers.