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by Yitzhak Lewis



People tell me

I have the hands of an artist,

with the power to create and destroy.

My slender fingers move like dripping ice cubes

smoothly melting into motion.

People tell me,

but they can't see

the tearing and biting

peeling flesh and skin

bleeding and destroying.

It doesn't hurt until afterwards.

I am merely a decisive man.

Nothing may be allowed to stay hanging

except the blank picture before my eyes,

a picture of these once beautiful hands

of these now bloodstained hands.



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