My hands:
chilled, white raisins
connected to my wrists.
Summer eves leave them
cold, clammy, and aged but
winter air cracks along the
lines like Great Barrier Reefs;
continual blood and pain
shooting along the cracked
lines— leaving scars.

As you watch their eyes
sweep over them,
surprise, pity, and disgust
swirl in their pupils
even though they are sure
they mask it with tight
warm smiles.
Too afraid to shake hands
or hold hands so you
hide them
behind you and
smile instead.

But when those others get lost,
I have the maps laid out
on my hands.
Memories of pain, suffering,
happiness, and strength,
all there, below my
fingertips.
And Momma always
told me—cold hands
mean a warm
heart.