(Photo by Kev Howard)

Sunburnt hand, stretching to the light

like Marvel’s Mr fantastic, or sticking up two fingers?

I’ll let you decide.

 

Bones break, twisted flesh, stitched then reformed

Who mourns for the pieces missing?

Who cries for the parts I’ve never had?

 

This thing, of plastic, does not, represent me

it only covers up, my true intentions

lulls you, into, a, false sense, of normality,

what you’ve been pre-programmed to call ordinary

 

because, you see I, was born ready to fight,

 

pared down to just the essentials

hidden real hand, already made, into a fist.

 

So I ask again

Who mourns for the bits I’ve lost?

Who cries for the parts I’ve never had?

 

This charred painted blackened polyurethane

It is a sunburnt hand

Reaching for something I never wanted.

 

 

Dominic JP Nelson-Ashley