The hands that light the fire

 
Today is one of those days. Today I contain the whole ocean inside me, and the tide is rising. A shoreless sea crashes against the confinement of my body, from within. These walls are not made to withstand that kind of battering, but I try. Grey, gurgling water bubbles up in my throat and threatens to choke me. Today, I'm drowning. The word is missing.

I will resist the sadness.

 

 
Today is yesterday and the day before. The day where I looked at my hands and felt death. I've never liked my hands, a heritage I don't entirely know how to carry forward without hurting myself. They are small, dark-skinned, with short, plain nails. Not very feminine, but they're my hands. Once, someone told me they were monkey-like, because of the color contrast between the back and the palm. He meant to be funny, but I hated that.

I will forget about it.

 

 
Yesterday was the day before, where my hands were restless. I felt like breaking, tearing, hurting (me). I looked around the bathroom I had locked myself in, and I looked inside of me, searching for a target. My eyes caught a stick of palo santo and a lighter, and my hands held them. I ignited the stick, and I watched it burn. The timid flames ate the oxygen around, growing stronger. I wanted to let them eat it all up. Destroy. Erase. Cleanse. But I just stood there, listening to the sizzle of the fire, until it went out.

I will control the bad urges.

 

 
The day before was last Friday afternoon, where I held my little brother's hand in mine. He looked so comfortable, and wouldn't let me move away. He was looking through the window of the bus. Every other second he would turn his head to me and make sure I was watching too. Don't fall asleep, he'd say. And how could I, I can't sleep when I'm on watch.

I will hold on to the ones I love.

 

 
Today is yesterday, and it's also tomorrow. Every day I wonder, for how long must I stand watch? Can't I just close my eyes and sleep? I fear that if I do, I would dream of the witch in the forest again. All those kids... The blood, the screams... But he was there, to protect me. He was. The warrior. A shoulder to rest on. A hand to hold on to while running. He was there, so was I. And he likes my hands.
 

^{I'd like to thank you for reading this. I hope my words resonated with you in some way. If they did, or even if they didn't, I'd like to further connect with you, so I invite you to drop a comment and I'll answer it as soon as I can.}