Your hand is a dark thing, a black cloud, a menacing entity. Seen from the side it is a gravity fed beam levelled at the bridge of my nose, a bad dream. Your pulse reverberates through your fingers and into the bones of my face. Drumming away my seeing. Your hand is a sign, your hand is a weapon emanating from your brow, you wield it with anger and impatience. Your eyes are made two slits by a searing light. I dreamed you were the light and you were the shadow and your hand was the instrument. And you inflicted the unseeing, the unfeeling, the burning, the isolating, darkening weight on me. I wanted to be captured, to yield, but you told me that I had to keep walking, keep running. Carrying the weight, the rock, the mountain. My own eyes sewn shut, my own mouth starved of food and words, flames tasting my feet and hands. Your hand is pulling my face into the soft earth. Your hand is a being. An eye watches from the palm. Watching my face coming slowly towards it, with pain scratched on one nail and light on the other. Your hand punishes, your hand loves. Your hand is stitched to my face.