They are the only ones that I have. I am the only one who uses them. Two purple hands, slowly moving and bloodless in the cold. Two amongst the other normal colored, white and peachy to a darkened brown. Two hands here just to get dry and cracked. From when I wake up and throughout the day, I notice them many times. Good thing I’m used to them.
Their color is certainly not secret. They attract eyes with their shades of purple. But then they are  broken by the cracks that run in between my fingers and the white on my knuckles when my hands are a fist. This is how they hurt.
I’ve never learned their reason for being. The veins just shrink until my hands are cold at 50 degrees. Shrink, purple, dry I shove them in my pockets. This is  their routine.
When they are purple I squeeze them together in anger. When, as if mocking me, they keep the white marks I’ve given them because there isn’t enough blood to flow back in. When you’d think we’d be on the same team. It confuses me, they are my two hands after all. But they just turn purple, dry out, and tighten up in the cold. Two whose only reason it seems is to pain me.