Quiet Hands

This makes me cry, because I want to find you, OP, and ask you if I can draw your hands (your voice); I want to find all the greatest textured things for you, things you like, and let you flap to your hearts content. The greatest compliment I have ever received was a quiet, “Youareverysymmetrical” from a boy at my high school who fought his way through the chaos in his mind just to tell me that. I sat down on the steps and cried because I know that must have been so hard for him. I do not cry easily. Please, have loud hands.

Just Stimming...

TW: Ableism, abuse

Explaining my reaction to this:

means I need to explain my history with this:

quiet handsquiet hands1.

When I was a little girl, they held my hands down in tacky glue while I cried.


I’m a lot bigger than them now. Walking down a hall to a meeting, my hand flies out to feel the texture on the wall as I pass by.

“Quiet hands,” I whisper.

My hand falls to my side.


When I was six years old, people who were much bigger than me with loud echoing voices held my hands down in textures that hurt worse than my broken wrist while I cried and begged and pleaded and screamed.


In a classroom of language-impaired kids, the most common phrase is a metaphor.

“Quiet hands!”

A student pushes at a piece of paper, flaps their hands, stacks their fingers against their palm, pokes at…

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Writing 201 & Travel

Clearly, I failed the challenge. As per usual, I have an explanation, but no excuse. The insomnia got really bad these past few weeks, so at some point, I just decided fuck it and curled up in bed with a book until I passed out.
On the other hand, my plans to travel to Germany have been running smoothly. Yes, I can hear your confusion. “Wait, you’re going to Germany? But Woad, you can’t even get half a night’s sleep! And you failed in bringing us poetry!” I know, I’m sorry. Thankfully, the insomnia’s hit a lull, and yes, I’m going to Germany (squee!). But! It’s going to take a while.
Fear not, my intrepid blogger friends, there is still more weird to come.
(Collapses into giggles)


Writing 201: Animal, Concrete, Enjambment

Against All Odds

                 the size of my
         hand, this ball of fluff, this             closed-eyed white creature. Moose    I decide is a perfect name. Prayer.         for your future, a ghost of hope that you will be