Skeleton Hands

I sit at my keyboard with my skeleton hands,
They type and type as much as they can.
They write words of regret, sometimes of disgust,
Hit backspace, replace them — happy things are a must.

I can’t control my skeleton hands,
They move freely, ignoring my commands.
They don’t beg me for a break; they don’t guide me through.
I ask them, “Just once, can we do what I want to?”

But my skeleton hands, like my skeleton heart,
Do what they must to keep me safe and apart — 
Apart from the world, apart from wisdom,
Shielding me from anything threatening my enigmatic system.

At night, when I cry myself to sleep,
I sometimes feel my skeleton hands creep.
They caress my face with a tender grace,
Push wet hair aside in a soft embrace.

Perhaps there’s some good in these skeleton hands, a spark of hope,
But truth be told, there’s not much left to bespoke.
The graveyard of my heart bears a “Do Not Enter” sign,
Chasing away all who dare cross its line.

I try to love my skeleton hands, to make peace with this curse,
But their grip on my life only makes things worse.
A curse meant to shield me brings sorrow instead,
Leaving me wondering who will hold me when I’m dead.

My skeleton hands wait for my physical demise,
Only then will they rest, content at my side.

For those who listen between the lines.
Elaine Degro