Phantom Hands

Harder to run, now,
down dark stairs.
Easier to stay where it's bright.
Still in the light, though,
one can stumble.
No needles now, no bottles.
My hands want to cut, pierce, burn.
I put a fork in them, a cigarette,
an army of vitamins, a pen.
The pen says things I can't.
Those things can also cut, pierce, burn.
Can't take them back
once they're there in black and white.
Free to be misread, or correctly interpreted;
who's to say which is worse.

What can they do now?
Useless hands.
Perhaps they'll fly away
and bring back an olive branch,
or a torch
to better light these dark stairs,
boost my immunity to the past.