Writer: Lucya Yang

I see hands,
hands behind the glowing screen,
pulling at me, ten times wider,
wide enough to circle Mother Earth.

I see hands,
hands behind the reflection
of the grease, the stale air
of loneliness in my room.

I see hands,
hands behind the jeering texts,
the gravel of emojis struck,
bruises by words forever stuck.

A million fingers pointing at the scale,
and a trillion glances against my dull eyes,
only then can you see the net,
when cushions merge into a wheelchair.

And I can no longer tread the sun 
and savor the wind,
when reels and posts clawed straight
through, pulling me towards the glow.

Hands, hands stripping me of 
the privilege to laugh, 
for I am in exile, 
of the glowing screen.