Fists

UNCLENCHING her fingers has become very enjoyable by now. Almost like a home outside of a home. A place where she can let go of everything and nobody will take it away from her till she works up the stength and the courage to pick up her burden again, and keep going till she reaches her next rest stop. 
She will not be allowed to slow down no matter how much her legs ache and her feet blister. She will not be allowed to pause to readjust her load so that it rests easier on her back and does not cut into her young flesh anymore than it has to over time. No such luxuries were allowed because she had somewhere to go even if the fog of self-doubt denied her the pleasure and reassurance of seeing where that was. 
Somehow things are washing over her more and passing her by without leaving her behind. Perhaps they might take a little of her with them, eroding away at the top layers but never taking away anything really precious. It was sort of like therapy actually. Like going for a manicure or a massage where they took away your dried skin, softening the new softness beneath it further. The things that passed by removed all the baggage she held unconsciously, the weights on her mind that clung on like parasites. 
And she wonders as she watches and imagines the passing things and constant things, whether she will emerge something better or something worse or just something different. Maybe even a someone, whatever that was. 
Her hands twitch slightly back to their accustomed positions further deepening the creases folded into her cardboard palms, and her fingers are tempted, teased closer to their fate-sealing. But she lets her hands remain still and unclenched, and everything remain out there.