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I took my two hands for granted,
their grasp, their hold, their future,
until he told me to touch the tip of his left nub.

I wrapped my fingers around where his wrist ended.
And, he smiled and sighed.

My lips curled around injustice’s bitter taste.
The sewage scent of someone done wrong filled our space.

I wanted to make my two fists for him,
but he opened my clenched claws,
one at a time,
and kissed my open, soft palms,
showing me the way out of anger.