All of my life I desperately wish I'd written something

Anything

About me,

My experiences,

So that my short existence wouldn't be

Meaningless.

Because with my eyes I've seen

The same people turn against each other

For land

For God

And with my ears I've heard splitting screams on the battlefield

That no one could ever forget

Even if they tried

But as I lay coughing on my bed,

And my tired eyes become ready for their

Eternal close,

I realize—

My hands.

My knuckles could tell you how hard they punched Timmy in third grade

Because he called me

'poophead'

My fingers could tell you with a wavering voice

How many times they pulled the trigger

And caused fatal bullets to penetrate the skulls of the 'enemy'

My palms remember how it felt to hold my daughter

Small, energetic—perfect.

My veins would complain

How weary they've become

From injections they've received to keep me

Breathing

Just

A

Bit

Longer.

And with a smile,

I know that my hands tell

The best story I could have ever

Hoped to write.