My hands are black with hope 
from living in the earth.
Soil sunk into my rinkles 
of skin and mind 

Memories. I am young 
we are making cake
hands full of flour, sweet sugar 
A separate chocolate bowl for me 

Not much has changed really.
Still resist it.
Too slow to do what I should
too fast to quit when I shouldn’t 

Leave me here
holding on 
like we used to.
I remember