My hands are afraid.

They fear reaching out.

They fear rejection.

My hands are a shy,

docile child on the

intimidating yellow bus,

anticipating the worst for 

their first day of school.

My fingers are a gentle kiss.

A kiss that is short-lived,

yet not forgotten.

They are a sweet melody

that no one else can replicate.

They are like the laughter 

of a spirited couple in the Spring. 

And like the bittersweet reminiscence we feel,

on the final month

of the year.

My hands are broken.

They're alone.

They're the anxiety 

of a young girl awaiting

a text from her boyfriend

who doesn't truly care about her.

He never did. 

My hands are my support.

They lay beneath my

speculative mind while I sleep,

telling me everything will

be alright.

They assure me that

I have support.

No matter how many struggles

pile up,

they can handle it.

They can carry the baggage. 

My hands are like 

the nurturing embrace

of a mom.

Not a mother,

but a mom.

Their shape mimics my mom’s,

just as I have

mimicked her.

Long fingers, unproportional to

our body-types.

Her influence is painted within

the intricate wrinkles outlining

and filling my palms.

They are a car

that continues to run

even when the tank is empty.

They are the ones who

deserve recognition

for everything I have accomplished.

Even when I felt that 

I could not keep going, 

my hands played 

a song of courage

on my frail heartstrings

And here I am.