I Look At These Hands
I had these hands clasped around my neck. I had these nails digging deep into my flesh, my air pipes are engraved. Spit falls onto my face this slur is released ‘you’re all animals!’. These hands try to squeeze the life out of me. These hands were mine. You wanted us to kill ourselves.
This self loathe embedded in me, my kind, we carried it in our bones. This wore heavy on our souls. This sun once smiled on us but it soon started to feel like it burns. It blackened our skin.
We had to remember that these hands were ours. Our hands once clapped before made sounds of joy. These hands once embraced and gave nurturing strokes. We remembered the songs that spilled from our lips, and the rhythm in our hips.
I urged my hands to remember me and release me from their grip.
We were done dying.
Prose by Kea Mooka
Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography