Don't.
Your arm is rusted in place
And a pain shoots through your shoulder.
That hand that used to be yours
Is staring at you empty
And helpless.
It's covered in cold, slimy scales,
Like a reptile's claw,
Like a snake's claw.
A snake's claw?
Hahahaha!
Your laughter echos in the dark,
But you know that it is true.
Just like a snake has no claws,
So is your own hand... not your own.
You give up
And stare at it in despair,
Afraid you've irretrievably lost
A piece of yourself.
Have you?
You want to cry,
You want to scream,
You want to smash that foreign appendage against a wall.
But no,
You don't,
You can't,
Because your other hand,
Your warm and feeling other hand,
Is stopping the claw
From getting hurt,
Cradling it, protecting it,
And you can finally breathe.
Slowly, gingerly,
You pick up a pencil and paper.
You will now have to learn
To write with your other hand.
