Where We Were Always Embraced

By Jess Doshi

Sitting enclosed in the 8 feet bathroom,

I look down at my hands. These rough hands

have been chastised for writing too slow.

Your words didn’t fall out with love

and patience, they stumbled like

a horse who is being beaten up to gallop fast.

These hands cherished every single word

they formed and embraced the ink

that spilled when the words got too much.

These hands have been intertwined

with more men than one. Oh, excuse me,

that offends your sexist norms. These hands have been

a witness to heinous crimes that were

never punished. They were bound with handcuffs

and couldn’t have their own way. These hands have

tried and begged them to stop, sweat

pooling in them at the speed of waterfalls

falling into the void. These hands have

signed petitions against women abuse

and rapists who deserve to be sentenced

to nothing less than death.

These hands have

seen it all. So, when you had let me

run these hands through your

dry, dying hair, they felt like

they were home. The feeling of belonging

and being right where they were supposed

to be, felt so close. If only they could have

had the chance to stay home forever.

But alas, every woman needs to leave

their house one day. In pursuit of a

promise for a better life, they say. But these hands,

these lovely little hands, only wanted

you to be there when they started shaking.

How will these hands ever be calm again?

Today, I sit on the cold floor, red bangles

dancing on my wrists. Looking into the mirror,

I wipe away the layers of makeup and

mascara that they chose, to hide my face away.

I look down at my henna-filled hands

and I promise them this,

“One day, my love, we will go back

to where we were always embraced.”

By Jess Doshi