esther gallin / d9 / fin / cbd1

My hands were not built for a life like the one I am living. I am something like a child still, and the world may try to deny that, but it's the truth. My hands are weary, scarred, and I think I am too, even though I try not to be.

I want to believe there is a quiet revolution inside me, but I'm not sure. I'm never sure of most things. It's not my fault. I was raised in a world where having personal convictions can get you killed. I am afraid of death. There is nothing wrong with that.

What I am sure of is that my hands were built for things like this: braiding my sisters’ hair (golden, like straw, like mine), embroidering flowers onto skirts, petting animals, handing drinks to friends on rooftops (sometimes alcoholic, I never said I was perfect), tracing stars in the sky. Kindness.

They were not built for: factories, waving away smog, dancing around sharp machinery, catching on the edges of metal.

I was built— no, born— like glass that was already broken and poorly repaired. It’s not my mother’s fault, she was born like that too. She said, “We’re women. It’s a burden we bear.”

I said, “I don’t like that.”

She said, “It doesn’t matter if you don't.”