I write parts of poems on my hands, almost every day.
Today it says, “a thought is a cross of the marionette of a mouth”
Sometimes it’s a quote from something I had to read for class. “And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought”
Sometimes it’s two words I heard used together for the first time and fell in love with.
But it’s always important.
After I write it, I spend the rest of the day completely aware of everything I touch. I open a door; part of the part of the poem rubs off on the handle. I run my fingers through my hair; part of the poem is left behind. I shake someone’s hand; they shake and take my poem along with them. I spread the words everywhere I go – I leave a trail of frantic inky scribbles in my wake. Follow them and you’ll know where I am.
I wash my hands; a layer of ink swirls away down the drain. The ink still clinging to my skin is a little lighter. A little weaker. A little harder to spread.
It’s funny because nobody ever notices the words on my hands – or if they do they don’t bother to read them. Most of the time, messy handwriting on a hand means that the person needs a reminder about an upcoming test, or appointment, or assignment. These are my reminders. To live through poems in a tangible, touchable, noticeable way. To let words be important to me, even if everyone around me is blind to the point.
Even if half of the people reading this right now are thinking “That’s dumb.”
A journal-esque piece of creative writing. Quite different from my usual poem entries, but poetically based none-the-less.