With My Left Hand, I Loved the World

I write with the hand they once called wrong

letters leaning away from the familiar,

as if my thoughts slipped through a side door

the world never bothered to open.

But in that quiet,

I found a space entirely mine.

The scissors never fit.

Chairs turned away,

and ink smudged the things I tried to keep neat.

Still, I held the pen like a secret flame

not to follow their lines,

but to draw my own.

There is something ancient in leftness.

We do not walk forward,

we circle like planets thinking in silence.

We dream in diagonals,

build meaning from absence,

and speak most clearly in metaphor.

I have loved everything differently.

The moon, with my palm turned sideways.

Books, with the margins nearest my chest.

Even hands I’ve held felt more real

because I reached for them

from the part of me they never expected.

To those who live in a world not built for you

we are not lost,

we are simply facing the other way.

We see what others miss,

and we love without maps.

With our left hands, we remember who we are.

This is our love letter:

to the left, to the offbeat, to the boundless.

We are the dreamers who turn the page,

the seekers who wander into tomorrow.

And in every line we draw, every idea we birth,

we remain forever, fiercely, gloriously left-handed.