My hands hurt from all the productivity they have attempted. For trying to produce something that they can hold and give and see as theirs. They ache at being overworked and under-cared. Still, they want something to hold. They contemplate growing more fingers and palms and nails-that-could-be-painted simply to reach further, grab wider, and grip tighter. Instead, they drop what they were already holding and begin to shake out of both pain and desire. And they wonder – what are hands if they do not hold or push or grip or shape or write or caress.
Meanwhile, they die. They are no longer mine.