They call me hot-hands
They call me sand-in-the-pants, they call me
The dirt and sticky shit at the bottom of recycled cans because
One day I fell out of a womb onto a floor and
I failed to toss an intent-filled glance to the door and
When the doorknob disappeared I crawled into my pocket like a coin, a
Five-cent piece of metal sprung from the dollar’s loins and
My blood vessels burst in my fingertips and palms
When the rest of me went cold my hands collected heat like alms
Just so they could bleed a little more when struck
Just so they could sweat against the cold of my toy trucks
Now I was rendered blue with two big red things hanging off me
Bus stop benches in February (meanwhile, a scalding cup of coffee)
Knee-knocking juxtaposed with bitter tasting tact
The cold’s booming voice rattling in a Disney backpack
I fell out of the womb and into the world and I
Slowly felt my fingers, one-by-one unfurled
Silenced, I touched the trash-bins with a sleepy half-smile
Collecting leaves and snotted sleeves and sticks in dusty piles
They call me hot-hands, they call me sand-in-the-pants, they call me dirt and sticky shit at the bottom of recycled cans

(via p-uss)