hands

it is now midnight, as it was midnight then. eyes, blinking furiously from the exhaustion, squinting at the phone screen clutched firmly in those two hands, the same two hands pulling me into this trap, this temptation, the two hands wrapping itself firmly around the blue-black veins on my neck, sinking in; the same two hands which fit like jigsaw puzzles into the crevices of shellfish and crustaceans, which ravage and tear them apart, red, burning hot skin torn into pieces; the same hands feeling the cool sensation on the glass protector of the smartphone as the deepest inches of your heart are left in the open for all to devour, for you to lose and be heard;

the same two hands typing on the phone screen, knowing well your deepest fears and joys walk down the same path, one you chose to turn away from, but yet end up chancing across again. it is these hands of yours which plot your demise.

let the vultures devour your heart, left out in the open, as you did before. there will be no miracles this time.