My Hands

September 8, 2014

By BRONZE, Wilmington, NC, North Carolina

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my hands are white

they are pale

you can easily see the blue veins that run beneath the skin

like a connection of rivers

my fingers are short and chubby

there is some raspberry juice stained on my left palm

my right hand has a scar from when i fell from my favorite tree

when i was 7

and some of my finger nails are bitten down

from when panic clings to my thoughts

my palms are scratched up

from falling over my own feet last week

there is dirt under my nails from watering and repotting

my closest friends this morning

my knuckles are hairy but do not have bruises

my hands are void of calluses

but are smudged with ink

my two palms have not met in prayer in a long time

my hands were lucky enough to hold you close to me

my hands shake at the thought of reading this poem aloud

my hand holds this pen

that can write poems about things i could never admit to my closest friends

my hands crave to remember the touch of smoothness of my favorite velvet dress

my hands have held onto and let go of many hands

they always feel different

my hands wish they could feel the cool, callused hands of my grandfather again

my hands have been dunked in rage

and dripped in pure spite

my hands have felt the soft touch of love

that warms my entire body like a special brand of alcohol

my hands are mine

and they will explain much more about me then my words ever could

The author's comments:

This was inspired to me from a prompt from my english teacher. It's companion poem is "My Face"

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