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Kristine Schomaker

My fingers are sore.

I am biting my cuticles, chewing my nails and rubbing my eyes.

My fingers are sore.

I am confused and angry and sad and frustrated and lost and helpless.

I write this with my favorite blue pentel energel liquid gel pen. #firstworldproblems

A callus forms on my finger because I am holding the pen tight.

My fingers are sore.

I wash my hands over and over and over and over again, scrubbing and rubbing and wincing.

I draw. I make marks on paper to try to distract, to sustain, to maintain, to persevere, to create hope.

My fingers are sore.

My fingers tap each key on the computer, H E L P L E S S then L O S T then H O P E then...

My fingers type frantically in order to keep up. Keep up. Keep up.

I hold my phone, scrolling and surfing, swiping and reading, tapping and holding, gripping and angry.

I look at my middle finger imagining where I would show it. Ugly from the chewing and biting, crooked from the drawing and writing, limp from its helpless lament and sour over its useless meaning.

My fingers are sore.

I thumb through the pages of books, through the days in my calendar. Do they matter?

I hold up my hand questioning everything.

I roll my hand into a fist of defiance of strength of love and support.

My fingers are sore.

My hands are on m hips, strong, powerful, ready.

Who is going to save us? Who is going to save us?

We are.

My fingers are sore. But that is okay. 

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