My hands are not pretty: ungraceful
curves of bone and flesh and skin all
wrapped up and knotted into place, in
a shape that is sure to hold, no scars,
no ragged lines to tell stories of the
places I have seen and the words that
have left my lips, no trace of evidence
of the faces that I have held in my palms,
lines slashed about rather carelessly,
as if whoever sculpted me forgot what
beauty was meant to look like, or rather,
didn’t care – for my hands are not pretty,
nor are they worthy of any praise; small,
like the rest of me, with no stories to tell
except a tormenting urge to pretend that
there lies something of interest in their
folds, something worth searching for;
my hands are gripped with the strange
longing for anything other than the
ordinary, they are tired and fragile and
forgotten and plain, unblemished, unmarked,
nothing worthy of unearthing, spinning
circles out of exhausting monotony, still
pretending that they are something poets
would dream of when all other muses flee,
much like the rest of me

 By Umang Kalra

About Umang:
Umang Kalra is a nineteen-year-old museum enthusiast, obsessive reader, procrastinator, airport lover, art nerd, and travel addict. She is currently pursuing an undergraduate degree in History from Trinity College, Dublin.You can view her writing on her Instagram, blog, and her Youtube


Artwork by Melinda Matyas


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