My Own Hand

A Poem

My brain is a centrifuge
Spinning gold from the straw of “what if”
Until the air is thick with theories
And the clock on the wall is a graveyard
I have mapped the terrain of a thousand lives I haven’t lived
Drawing blueprints so detailed they should have zip codes
Yet they sit on the shelf gathering dust like gray snow

Thinking is a clever way of staying still
Analysis? A masquerade for the fear of being seen

I freeze up - a ghost in my wiring
The body’s old, loyal soldier still guarding a door
That fell off its hinges years ago
Rewiring a survival mechanism requires more than meditation
It requires movement
While your marrow screams stay hidden
It’s the practice of doing the opposite of “normal”
Until “normal” forgets how to pronounce your name

The library is my physical commitment to curiosity
A pursuit of a world larger than the one inside my skull
When I send you a song, understand
I am handing you the keys to my world
True intimacy is the conversation had before skin meets
The shared understanding found in the bridge

The shallow end is unappealing
I’m asking follow-up questions to silence the room
The ones hunting for truth behind walls and masks
Knee-jerk reactions are a thing of the past
No longer feeding the hungry fires of gossip
Getting good - really good - at keeping my silence
Wherever a storm is expected

Dating in your forties is holding your own hand
I heard a man joke about a nineteen-year age gap
Calling his wife his “retirement plan”
And I felt the phantom weight of every nightmare I escaped
To him, it is a punchline
To me, it is the sound of a cage door clicking shut

Sometimes, I suspect I’m being auditioned to fill a vacancy
Left by someone better suited for the role I’m being asked to fill
A replacement part, rather than a partner in crime and adventure
But I’m standing at the door without forcing the lock
If energy is misaligned, the math is astonishingly simple
There is no need for a scalpel
The beat’s just out of sync

Anxiety is a thief that shortens our beautiful, finite lives
And overthinking is the accomplice
Helping to carry the heavy boxes out the back door
I go against my own grain now,
Refusing to do more than my share of the lifting

My autonomy is the only thing that was truly mine
So when I choose who to be close to
I look for the rare, slow-burning miracle of
Clarity that doesn’t require a decoder ring
Honesty that is present even when inconvenient
Consideration as a bridge, not the toll
Trust built brick by agonizing brick

My heart is not obligated to meet anyone’s deadline
I cannot remain in rooms where the air is thin
And respect is conditional
Friendship is the foundation that doesn’t crumble when the wind changes
I trust that the things meant for me will stay
Without having to white-knuckle the edge of the table