In my hand, 

I hold my sister's spite,

my mom's frustration,

and my own anger. 

My fist is closed so you cannot see 

the contents.

 

You see raw knuckles, 

washed with vigor

under scathing hot water and harsh dish soap

until my skin succame to 

cracking and discoloration.

 

My fist is not raised.

It is draped by my side.

The weight of my hand plague each motion

and it is all I can do to not let the

contents spill out and create a 

Mess.