Our Hands

Not one the same the print is always different
Some long some short some unknown
These hands born tiny they grow into something
Touching feeling holding onto life
Finding love pain shame and even suicide
The fingertips to our mind not talking aloud
The pills they take the alcohol they drink
Just secretly whispering inside wondering why
What to crush what to break what to harm what next
If our hands could speak of all they have touched of all they have written 
The lives they have saved the lives that they take
The things they have cleaned the things they have dirtied
We may be mentally thinking through our hands
We May be mentally dying without the help we need
No time to waste no time to hold their hand
It May be one last time to wave goodbye