Broken hands

I am not destined for beautiful things
no
I break them
lose them
with my clumsy hands
clumsy heart

I am careless with fragile things
dropping
breaking

I tried once
it was a music box
on three golden legs
with gilded edges
the pink and cream profile of an English girl with blind marble eyes
I had begged again and again
for my mother to buy
she told me no
I will break it
she said, like it was a fact written in stars
I wouldn't
I wouldn't
I wouldn't

I hid it, in a place no one would find
I look at it every night
afraid for its beauty
and my cursed hands
I would not touch it
so it is nestled
under my mattress
close to my sleeping heart
I said goodbye every day before school
aching fearing
and rushed home to check on it
but my mother was right
no matter how I tried
I came home one day to find it broken in two

The mattress was clean with new sheets
my music box came apart into two
Who did it? Who did it?
I asked over and over
no one answered but blank stares

I kept the broken remains
until all that was left was the metal mechanism that played the tune
a reminder
of twisted hands

I have never believed that I can hold on to anything beautiful after
including you

Sometimes, I think
you are simply too beautiful for me
too beautiful
for broken hands