Peace and Warm Hands

I dream of peace and warm hands.

I abandon the passion of revenge and rage—

I replace it with the feminine capability of emotion so deep it hurts…

I can define how I feel by colors and flowery words,

Not by a punch in the face      or a smile full of blood.

The dirt under my nails from some sort of airy forgetfulness,

Of a preoccupied mind,

A poem of my grace,

(A poem of my sigh)

Not the byproduct of adrenaline-rushed eyes, desperate clawing at the                   hardened ground.

I feel emotion so deep I feel I must fall into   myself;

  I give myself and my image to you—

    I fear I must have misplaced the crazed hysteria of rage so deep it blinded every waking thought with a desire towards inflicted pain.

My bloodied knuckles are our secret;                          a mere fall, officer…

My bloodied knuckles are to be hidden,                      they turn a light pink

they no longer blind my vision by the pale

and quick to fall      apart– 

        chi p.

The pleaded faces and desperate cries hurt my heart,

They no longer fill me with disgust and anger;

my brow softens,

my teeth no longer bite what my fist can’t hurt.

I have all but stopped.

My forked tongue is thinly hidden behind my teeth,

The mark on my back protects me from evil.         

                                                                                                             Cross me two times.