The Revealing Source

I may wear my heart on my sleeve but I hold my life in my hands.
I've learned how to lie with my eyes,
With the tensity of my face.
My lips can say grab me
But my eye's say don't fuck with me.
As I stand in front of that lense and hear the click of the shutter
simultaneous with that blinding light in my eyes
I can emmulate anything They want.
The porcealin doll.
The sex symbol.
Girl next door.
The broken heart.
Attitude.


My hands though,
My hands hold a genuineness that my eye's have lost.
My fingers,
Long and nimble with joints that crack every few minutes,
Fingernails that are bitten down to the skin,
Veins that pop out,
Crudely displaying the inner workings of my bloody estuaries.
The hair from my forearms trilling onto the face of my hand,
Although delicate and light it stays as a constant reminder of my primitive roots.
My palm is smooth,
With lines intersecting and winding around,
Revealing my future to all who wish to know.


My hands are revealing but not in their appearance.
My fingers clench up and my palms temperature rises,
The veins pump tensely and take over the focus.
My thumb slyly reaches over and begins to exasperate the air pockets of it's partnered finger's joints.
Top knuckle, bottom knuckle.
Push, pull.
Repeat.
My wrist will twist and my fingers look awkward,
Confused about where to go, what to do.
They lose control and forget all their years of training,
The long hours of practice in the mirror to mold from gawky and estranged bones on top of each other
Into graceful, flawless, perfectly placed, story telling devices.
The longs hours of how to move each finger individually but together, like a flock of swan gliding together,
Individual but together.


My fingers will reveal my stress,
My awkwardness,
My insecurity,
My discomfort,
My anger and frustration,
My sadness or joy.


Look at my fingers to learn me, not my eyes.
Not my mouth,
Not my hair or my face.
Not my arms or hips,
My legs or my feet.
Look at my hands.