Mariah Fletcher
Every night I kneel with the same prayer.
I fear that prayer can work the same as a wishing well, just an echo back.
I will believe despite.
I have this recurring dream after the prayer where I am good and I am loved.
I am good and I am loved.
Loved so gently, I am soft to the touch.
I suppose it is hard to love a predator with the gentleness you should show prey.
My hands tremble as I force them into prayer after this dream.
My hands have made some tragic mistakes.
They have loved and touched faces before a kiss. They have intertwined fingers with friends through a crowd. They know how to write and paint as if the bones know a language foreign to most.
My knuckles have been bloody, and my nails have had blood underneath them. My mother used to kiss my hand with her mauve lip gloss every morning before school.
They have been bound together in prayer and caught beams of light through stained glass. They hold the weight of invisibility.
These hands of mine have made good mistakes; they can make better ones.
All of the mistakes are mine,
and if it is something of mine,
it will be good and it will be loved.