Girl Hands

We lose our autonomy 

young.

So cute to touch,

to smell the tops of heads,

to go “Awwww!” over.

The changing room at the second hand store 

in small town America never felt cheap to me.

They even established a little toy alcove 

for the children in waiting of 

mothers thrifting. 

We went there again,

a couple days before the funeral.

To look for black things to wear 

and to acknowledge diplomatically 

the town’s pity on us. 

Maybe, that’s the day it officially started 

for me?

My addiction 

or a refined craftsmanship 

of sad blue eyes and girl hands. 

To derive some sort of advantage?

I put my heart in your hands. 

My brain on your crotch. 

It’s cliche and exploitative of course. 

But it’s what comes naturally

for me to do, anyways…