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Writer's pictureSylva

Vulnerable Hand

Reaching, stretching, wishing, hoping, pulling, wanting someone to take my hand and hold it just to know one is not afraid to touch my filth. Like the first small sprout of spring I slowly open my petals, hoping, wondering, dreading that someone might see me. Might notice my colors. Might ignore me and crush me instead. I shiver and wither. I hold the drops back, don’t let them fall to the pedestal of my face for all to see and crush under their feet. I flinch at each small step and each vibration that threatens to topple the delicate pieces I tried to glue together. Cover my eyes and bar the doors to keep staring, shooting arrows from making their way through the gates to my soul. Build a fortress around every scrape, every scar, every cut, every bruise, every discoloration, every spot of dirt, every hangnail. Set up defenses when another approaches. I must speak, smile, laugh, do something to keep them from looking closer, from asking questions, from grabbing my desperate hand that still reaches despite the overpowering terror. It reaches, shaking and longing to grasp something solid, something alive, something equally flawed. Like each fragile petal it wants to feel the breeze of exposure and the warmth of the sun. But that is impossible. None would take me for me over the actor I have become. So the tears continue to fall behind closed lids and closed doors.


 

Alyssia Vanderlaan is a Writing and Honors Humanities double major with a minor in Business Administration at IWU. She is not sure what her dream job is; however, she looks forward to using her skills in many different positions and potential careers. In her free time, she enjoys reading, writing, and spending time with friends.

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