Hands should be rough. They should be scarred from life and tough from
work. They should be wrinkled and tanned and freckled. Cover them in
metal that clinks together as you move. Dip them in ink and markings.
Let your fingers dance and drink the way you never would. Pierce your
skin, cut it, destroy it, stain it, but god forbid you preserve it.
Let the feathers spurt and grow; don't clip them. Climb the cliffs
with the back of your hands. Go higher, higher, higher, until the
whisper of a breeze is a bellow from the ground telling you to come
down, come down, come down. Go further. Let the sticky tendrils braid
your hair, but never stop running. Put your arms up, in front of your
face, and your hands will block their blows. Let them. Let their words
whip you. Let the flesh rip on your palms like the pages of a book you
never read. And it's okay if your blood seeps through the glass
display case onto their white shoes. It's okay if your ink forms
speeches on the ground. It's okay. Let them look down. And when their
fists are raised at your eyes, reach out. Lower your gaze to theirs
and let your hands be your bridges.