Your Knuckles Are Really Hard

By M.C. Griffin

“Your knuckles are really hard.”

Why would she say that? Someone wrapping their fingers over my fist after a farewell of knuckle to knuckle flirtation is a peculiar thing to me. Are they different than other knuckles? My arms reach down in front of my eyes, my hands at the ends. These hands, thick, soft, are more myself than any other part of my body.

“Your knuckles are really hard.”

Are they thick because I like to clench my fists as if in some need to end a seven year violence dry spell, saying help me please, I’m a sadomasochistic blood junky and I’d cuticle hump a man for one more bump of blood drip from a busted lip. I need a man to scream, please.

“Your knuckles are really hard.”

Hard because they’re tempered by 6,000 degrees of self love wrapped visibly around my self consciousness, becoming even fatter as my mind goes blank with lost beauty, and I breathe the hated breath, which escapes like a worm from dirt, cover my mouth when I sneeze.

“Your knuckles are really hard.”

Hard ‘cause they hurt? Cause I’ve been writing, loving, drawing, and hating that God dug a tunnel through my wrists and made grey the muscle. Saying, please God, I pray, this is the only me I got don’t take it away.

“Your knuckles are really hard.”

Knuckle deep in her love. Help me escape cause I’m twenty four karat humongous, which ain’t shit but you lust this, a man who thought he was loveless, I’ll touch this and feel your soul under the skin, I’ll feel your skin over and under whether I’m out or in.

“Your knuckles are really hard.”