I knew that I had fallen in love the second I felt my ear buds shiver in tune with the base.
I search for a Sharpie, my weapon of mass destruction,
To scribble the title of the song onto my graffiti-covered hands.
Finally, I discover a light blue marker,
To accent nicely with the orange note-to-self on my forearm.
I lean back, admiring my works of art, and arts of work.
Each day, my hands work tirelessly as I insist on them to move forward,
Maintaining a sense of urgency.
I turn my hands over, reliving every scar and mark that I notice on my pale dry skin.
The crescent-shaped scar on my left wrist, I recall, is the mark left after a rough night of babysitting.
And the paper cut on the tip of the middle finger on my right hand; making a birthday card.
Each little error being repaired by the wonders of self-healing, allowing me to continue
To write this, to elaborate on that, and to doodle in the margin.
Sometimes my hands ache,
Especially after continuous plunging of the tip of a pen into soft paper.
They beg for attention,
Sometimes seeming so unattractive that they must be venerated with silver and rhinestones.
But my hands are appreciated.
Without them, I could not feel another person’s hand in mine,
Or the touch of something soft.
But most importantly, without my hands,
The thoughts I don’t say out loud could never be put into words.