diary posts from the hands .

hello .
my name is left hand .
man, im a screw up . i lifted 15 shots of patron up to my counterpart named mouth . mr. mouth swished the alcohol until it's gums burned (at least, thats what he told me) . i mean, i dont know what happened exactly, but somehow im curled into the fetal position and im charging very fast at someone's face . c r a c k . is that blood ? now im being hurled over here and over there, im hitting noses and eyes and jaws . man, i just cant seem to get right . all of sudden, i'm filled with steel and im pulling back at this moon-shaped metal piece . a shock of release fills throughout my palms and now the gun has fallen from my grip ... what have i done ?


hello .
my name is right hand .
i reached all of me to my mothers face on the other side of the window . im slipped underneath the whole at the bottom and im embracing her... hello mother's hand . i hate picking up the same uniform everyday in here . i'm so ugly . scars and dislocations from the yard fights, guard fights, set fights, late nights .. guarding myself . but i dance across lined notebook paper, making swivels and dashes and dots to my love ones on the outside . i hit keys now . telephone keys to ask my mother to put money on my books . the left hand does all the damage, and my right has all of responsibility .


its not as simple as black and white when it comes to a person's character . but a lot of times, we create 10,000 more colors to compensate for the decisions we make . even though somethings are hard to decifer as ethical, some things are simply wrong & right ;