My hands are not clean and groomed. My hands are dry, cracked, scarred, bruised, and beat. You always complimented my hands. “I love the tenderness of your hands, because it shows you work hard to provide and take pride in your work.” That’s the truth. But I am not sure if you noticed the blood that dripped from the tips each night. I am not sure if you noticed the bandages I used, so that I could do it all over again the next day for you. I remember lacing my fingers to yours. Your hands so gorgeous, soft, pure, delicate and manicured. Mine so rough like the wilderness after a wildfire… I remember waking up in the night searching for your hand. It was easily found 7 inches to the right of me. I remember being nervous at mixers and youd reach for my hand knowing i was nervous. I found comfort in your hands. Now I search… Nothing is found, I reach for comfort and my consciousness pulls my hand back into my pocket, where I fiddel with the lint gathered in the pocket seems.
Now my hands suffer working for all you took. No longer in my possession, I still work my hands to the bone. Just to provide for a life and possessions I no longer own. My house is a prison and my flatware mocks me as you run around the country leaving me to suffer.