These hands hold Power, with their thick, long fingers like tree roots they are buried into the soil with my ancestors as they harness their brilliance and power that’s keeps me grounded to this land.
These hands hold Rage, for my siblings who are missing, murdered, displaced, isolated, sold, raped, and lost in this place we once called home.
These hands hold complexities, of once being strong and callous for the masculinity forced by my colonizers, as well as the soft and hard femininity held and nurtured by the strong women who surround me, the femme spirit of my kokums before and the girl who didn’t have a childhood.
These hands hold Maps, carved into my skin by the creator of where I will go, who I will love, what I will accomplish, and when I will die and be reborn.
These hands hold pain, Burning and aching pain felt by my bloodline, intergenerational trauma running through my veins, beating in my heart and spilling on the floor in a pool that I had to cut out.
These hands hold these words, that I kept inside myself for too long worrying about how I will look, what you will think, or will you even listen.
These hands hold the creativity, spinning and dancing from my mind on to this page, a beautiful dance of letters and sounds that I wish I could speak in my mother tongue.
These hands hold guilt, for when you grabbed me and spun me around in your arms making me fall for you over and over and over. Different name but that same white skin, strong jaw, deep voice and need to take what is not yours.
These hands hold you.