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A random woman felt like a groupie when she saw me write and said that the fingers on my hands belonged to her, I said if they did what would you be doing, instantly, I asked myself why did I ask that, she replied, I would take two of those fingers and taste myself, because words give appetizers to five course dishes, this middle finger would say *** you, get it, *** you, not in a bad way, it’s the only dry finger where I could tell you to come here, the index and the thumb would be used to pinch my lips shut, because in most apartments, loud noises are banned from the hours of ten to six, and an eviction notice is the last thing needed, with the other hand, you could choke me until I am exorcised of any other man that has ever been in me, see your hands are your hands simply because you write, your hands are my hands because your touch gives me life, isn’t it amazing, how fingertips can talk more to your body by barely touching your skin, laying your hands on me feels good even though it’s a sin, but the difference between that and all those preachers is I’m not looking for a spiritual reboot, I’m looking for the lies in your hands to tell me truths, slap me for the times I didn’t appreciate men, pin me down for the times I fought back when I know deep down I shoulda surrendered, grab me by my waist and control me because I’ve always been independent, and let no man spend his hard earned dollars on me, so I wanna know what it feels like to have a real man cash in, leave your spare change in my piggy bank as I may needed to be seeded but remember, my tonsils are pink too, so wherever you deposit your check, it’s guaranteed not to bounce, use those hands man, then I looked at my hands, and I looked back at her, I looked at my hands, and then I looked back at her, and finally, I took a last glance at my hands, I never knew the power of touch could affect something you’ve never felt
