My Left Hand

In the night, when the black has set up shop,
and the mist is thin across the far off fields,
I feel a worry.

A certain loss of control, a flurry of concern.
Like slick oil underfoot that threatens
to undo the purchase that I've gained in the day.

Pressure building behind me
and then a bloom of far too much.

Consumed, I am knocked to the ground,
overcome by that which I always anticipated,
feared,
but imagined would never manifest. Lies. Untruths.
It was all pretend.

None of it could ever touch me,
as long as it was in my head and not in myself.

My left hand, it wants to touch things.
It wants.
It wants to take and hurt and ruin.

My left hand throbs;
full of blood and twitching.
All those impure thoughts,
and unclean feelings.

Bottled into a single appendage.

Well, it makes for a numbing proposition. Cut it off.
But I might just bleed out.

My left hand.
It haunts me.