Member-only story
Cold Hands
A Poem For Empaths
When Jane was ten, she found an injured bird on her way home from school
She crouched on the pavement
Reached for it as it flip-flopped into the gutter from the sidewalk
Cradled its little brown body in her hands
And watched as it took its last breath, then lay still in her palms
She cried the rest of the way home
And couldn’t eat her dinner
You’re too sensitive, her father told her
You need to grow a thicker skin. It was just a bird, Jane
And later, as she lay in her bed, staring at a full sky of pulsing stars
She wondered if she would always disappoint her father
If he would always roll his eyes every time she cried
Then she thought about thick skin and how to grow some
Would it hurt?
And if she had some, would she still be able to feel her dog’s satiny fur?
Or her mother’s soft butterfly kisses on her forehead?
Would her favourite pillow’s worn flannel still feel the same against her cheek?
