Hands.

These are the claws that dig into my chest. 

Tearing through the skin to reach my spine. 

Gripping my throat, squeezing with hate. 

These are the tools sent to inflict pain in unrest. 

Tattered with blood and bruises so fine. 

Grinding my teeth as I feel I'm too late. 

These are the hands, attached to me at the nest. 

Tracking my every move down the line. 

Grateful I am not, as they pull me down.