rabbit-chewed
i don't know what to do with my hands so i put them away, tuck them into fields of clover. when i was younger i could never find a four-leafed one, even though i would spend hours searching. in the end, i would take a regular one - three leaves, and rip one of them - four leaves. despite knowing it had no value, i would tote it around like it did, like it meant something, like it could possibly give me what i wanted.
forced luck does not come as easily. it does not come at all.
now, i do not believe in luck. i do not know what to do with myself, so i tuck myself away between swaths of paper, a task created by myself for myself. when i create, it is because there is nothing else i have to do, that i can do. it has turned into talent.
i do not know what to do with my mind. i barricade it away from reality, building up the walls with stories and memories. i tuck it away in between pages of books and in the frames of paintings. i have been told i appear as if i'm always lost in thought.
i do not know what to do with my body, so i burn it to the ground. i give my hands something to do, angry red marks rising from what will never again be unsullied skin. my mind, in being barricaded away, has nothing to say about this - impassive when faced with my auto-destruction.
i have not sat down between clover flowers in years. i cannot remember the last time i looked for a four leaf clover with my heart full of genuine hope that i'd find one. i cannot remember a time when my head was on my shoulders, mind not in the clouds. i have busied my hands, hidden my mind, desecrated my body, but i remain here. i miss believing in luck.