I hate these hands for seeking yours in an argument. I hate these hands for needing to be held when you're calling me nasty names, for trying to tame your anger, to be once again against your skin. I hate these hands, for acting like string telephones. Seeking reassurance that this is just a fight and not the end. Caressing your anger in ways I know not how to. These hands defy the brain and find you regardless, desperate for connection. Isn't that what you do for a living? Provide people with connection? How then do we lack so much in return? And perhaps it's my abandonment issues holding onto you desperately while you yell. While I yell. Or perhaps its my body saying I'm staying regardless of what you say. What I didn't know was you could paint them so horridly. You painted them with manipulation. And deceit. And so, now I despise them for not listening. For not pulling away. For comforting you when it was all I wanted in return. I hate them for translating the vibrations of your body, for returning empty and wounded. For not being the ones you want to hold onto.
-Indelible Ink [ String Telephones ]