Maybe our hearts are inside bottles

Fingers curl
and palms clench
into tight fists

to fight?

Knuckles turn white
drained of blood
only bones jutting out
like blunt knives
as if to say, “Dare you come near me.”

Some days are like this.

When the fist is not even
an invitation to spar.
In such a fierce proposal
is the knowledge
that no one will really be ready to take you on.

Clenched fists like these are like locked doors
like hearts inside bottles that simply don’t want to come out.

But everywhen is not like this.

Sometimes.

Sometimes
hands open, fingers unfurl
revealing soft flesh and gentle, bumpy terrains.

Sometimes
they want to wave and say hello
or open up to invite

Sometimes
they are ready to receive with the curving of the palms
whatever it is that will fall into them.

Sometimes
they want to hold
to wipe away tears
or push away the strands of hair coming between someone’s eyes and the world.

Sometimes
hands want to place themselves on hips
to dance and jive.

And sometimes
they want to count on their digits
all the things you can do with open hands.

Sometimes.

Just not today.

Today, hands can only fist up and beat like hearts inside impenetrable bottles.
Some days are like this.

And sometimes, that’s just fine.