Callused

My trajectory is twisted, obscure,

As I plummet down this hallway of hands.

Heart in fist, I am clutching at the walls --

Walls made of fingers and palms.

I cry out at every callus I recognize,

Beseeching them to bear the burden of this unseemly

Lump of flesh.

For my wrist grows tired, and my descent

Is only becoming swifter.

But the weight remains in my grasp,

For not one hand unclenched for me as I passed.

Not one of you kept me from falling.