These lines on my hand tell more than the stories of my past.
They speak in a tongue I cannot hear, and move me in ways I cannot feel.
They belong to me, and yet, I do not know them.
And though I wash them, they won’t come clean of all the unseen things I’ve done to no one,
And so they hold this pen for me, and transcribe from heart to head to paper,
and the words poured out by their gliding calligraphy back translate to meaningless babble
of a soul attempting to speak of that which has no words.