small hands

run away at the speed of light in gleaming colors that don’t meet the eye. reminisce over the days my legs were sprawled over my mother’s afghan rug while I clutched a book in my small hands like it was my only tether to this life. my tether switched ways it holds hope in different places, it has a home in the third world horrors that don’t match their aesthetics. because spring flowers in bloom don’t have room for the children that are doomed in the land of the third world you like to call home. small hands hold me now, my tether switched ways I miss the days where my book was my tether to this worldly place.