But what happens when the hand that feeds you bites back? Do you hold back in complacency, in fear of dying of hunger or do you search for another way to find food? Tearing yourself away from everything you have ever known and once more diving into the deep, dark, dense, dungeon of doubt?
You made it out before – you will make it out again.
But do you remember how? Do you remember how many sacrifices you burned at the altar to get there? How many dark alleys you had to wander into just to find the perfect piece to place in the perfect slot, to create the perfect hand for the perfect meal?
And if you don’t remember then how can you even begin to understand how much your are casually dismissing every time you place yourself on the outside of a conversation? How many lifetimes and universes of experiences you are denying the world, and how the picture cannot be complete without it?
Or are you more worried that the word will see your scars and realise you have teeth? As if the world isn’t full of people who have just been taking parts for themselves to create their own hands. As if scars can be healed without food.
“I’ll be fine.”
You say, wiping away more blood, looking once more to the hand knowing that it’s either that or the deep, dark dense dungeon.
And so you oscillate afraid to face the dark and afraid to die of hunger. Torn between self preservation and self preservation. As if you were ever meant to survive – as if anyone was.
“I’ll be fine.”
So you yourself aside. Again, swallowing. Again, suppressing. Again, prioritising. Again, others. Never you.
And so you survive, although you never do.
Oblivious to the facts: you already have two hands…
… and there’s plenty of food.