An Objection by Andrea (Canada)

your hands,
they are storytellers
they shake with the faults you've written in their creases.

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sunset stained
​golds spill from your fingers
the whispering accusations of the gentle sun and sky
you think yourself a fallen star
a pseudo-atlas of your home
walking around like the planets rested on your shoulders
fissuring your skeleton
spelling self hate in the cracks
your soul is too big for your body
the fractures burn sometimes, when you talk about them
a girl with a small voice and a creaking form
it doesn't take too long for the sounds to fill the air.
And it dawns on you, in the same colors as the stains on your hands,
how much you did not sound like the accused
you are too human
tripping up and falling and getting up again
with the help of other blemished hands.
you sit at the kitchen table, midnight
the sky trampled in a carpet of stars
and the chair does not shake at the magnitude of your mistakes