Duotheism

When I was born, my hands were tiny, doughy.

Growing, measurement of how much.

Placing my hands against my father's; by the time they were as big as his, I hadn't cared.

My hands wreak havoc, violence. Conversely, caress my lover's flesh with featherlight precision, passion.

Now my hands betray me, trembling. Signs of my weakening frame, deteriorating mind.

Once strong, now I can barely bring a glass to my lips without trembling, spilling the water. I look down at my hands in my lap and despair.

I once told you I want to die alone. That was a lie.