I’ve been trying to teach my fingers what it’s like to be light as air—soft as light. To forget what it’s like to hold a hand—a history—a life. I’ve been trying to apologize to my fingers for rubbing them raw and letting them break apart—for turning them invisible so I could use my own body to look through for the ones not there—for leaving my hands empty because it’s only me here, and I refuse to hold me. 

I’ve always lived in those moments of holding nothing. I’ve always lived in that moment between when I turned off the faucet and when I dried my hands—between when I let someone overextend my legs and when I woke up with sore hips the next morning—between when fingers furled around my throat and when the yellowed bruises formed—between when the Christmas lights went up without you and when I remembered you weren’t there when they got taken down last year anyway. 

One day she’ll use the root touch-up kit that’s been sitting open in her bathroom cabinet, but find that no matter how much she stains her fingers black, nothing stops the gray hairs from growing underneath the tar. One day I’ll reach gingerly into the closet, because I don’t think my fingers belong there anymore, and retrieve the memories I’d abandoned—but only keep the photos of him shot from behind. 

One day, years after I become their ghost, my sketches will have been scored so deeply on their skins that they’ll still feel my fingertips when they trace the black lines, and when someone asks them where they got their tattoos from, they’ll have to curl their tongues around my name—or else, lie. But the fingers can’t lie. 

Now my fingers fold the wonton wrapper over itself until it looks something like a paper crane—then they fold myself into the shape of a heart because that’s all I am. And with fingers that still smell of ginger—finally, I hold myself. 

(No matter who else is in the bed beside me, I always have to come home to myself. No matter how many times I have to unwrap my fingers around something I’ve been holding onto too tight, I still have to pull the trash to the curb every Monday night.)