My hands look so small right now. I see them and I try to fathom them, short nails, untamed cuticles, two gold diamond rings. My fingers, which typically appear pudgy due to many years of knuckle cracking, seem slim, frail and weak. Somehow there is a faded heart drawn in pen, on my left hand. How it got there, I am unaware. I stare at them, busy at work. They glide over the white and grey letters, making something. Creating something useless. Something pointless. They bend. They hurt, they ache right now. They are wrinkly like my grandma’s used to be, they are tired. Six freckles, so small, hardly detectible. My hands are a mystery. How can they do the things they do. How do they express everything and nothing. They are just hands. But I have somehow suddenly realized that hands, my hands, your hands, are capable of far more than we ever thought possible. Hands hold others, make them feel safe and comfortable, wanted and loved. Hands hurt others, they shoot the gun, cut the skin, stab you in the back. Hands are beautiful, they are disgusting. They hide things in their plams, keep secrets, keep me warm. Mine are soft. Blonde thin hairs, barely visible. Palms fleshy, cold and clammy. Each crease like a scar, forever there, never to leave. I see veins, blue and purple. I squeeze my palms shut, digging my the tips of my nails into my skin. It might hurt, but I don’t feel it anymore. I want to see the crescent shape my nails make in the palm of my hand. The little half moons that only remain for a few minutes, reminding me of my presence. Then they fade, forever gone.
I need a more permanent reminder.
"forever gone"
ReplyDeletethe moons are enough.