Libra

My hands are heavy
and tire-skin.

I carry that weight like
a Northeastern Brazilian woman:
strong to the very end, why?
I don't know, she doesn't either,
but we both are.

We accept the inevitable.
Nothing is permanent.
We accept it so well I start to wonder
if we have become
too wise
or too cold.

I carry that petulant pose of
a Paulistana who knows better
than fuckin' Wasteland Northeast:
overachiever, the way to be.

We accept nothing less than
perfection.
And when you deliver less,
well it's time for you to leave.

My hands are white
and porcelain-skin:
I doubt anyone's worth
of holding them.