The Part Of Me That Feels The Most

By Fatima Zohra

the part of me that feels the most

seeks the most

my hands

even before I know

they are reaching out in my sleep

reaching out to grab on to thin air

even before I know.

I wish it could pretend, my hand

pretend like it didn’t have a heart of its own

spreading itself out

spreading itself thin

trying to contain of things that slip through my fingers

as if they never once lived there

the warmth fast escaping

me scrambling for familiar heat

Let me touch the sun

even as I know it will only burn

Let me touch the sun

maybe skin destroyed will stop wanting momentarily.

All the sadness that leaves from my body

leaves from my hands

It washes over my palm

leaving grief etched

in the raw open lines of my hand

leaving grief in the lines like

deposits of black soot

and every time a familiar sadness washes over my palm

they sting, the open wounds

I like to hope that some of the grief leaves with every wave

but there is only more setting in the lines

always more settling in the lines

they are never closed

they are never dry.

things change as they grow on my hand

as I hold on to them

I am watering the garden on my palm one day

I smell the roses before I sleep, content

I wake up the next morning

groggy, eyes still closed

I stagger to the sink

collect water in my palm

and I rub my face

and I rub my face

and my skin is Scratched and bleeding

and I am awake and terrified

and in place of the roses I smelled last night are thorns

thorns sharp and ugly

thorns once roses

and I have no choice

but to pull at some of them

from their roots

the roots that once belonged to the roses I love

and as much as I want to keep the thorns because of the roses they remind me of

I have to rip some of them out

for I only have so much blood to lose before I faint.

with all that is lost and slipped away

what. Is even mine.

what is mine is

how it made me feel as I held it

and how it will feel when I hold it again

By Fatima Zohra