Hands

I don’t have the prettiest hands-
they’re scarred from sores, insect bites,
cuts and scrapes,
and that pencil that attacked me
in middle school –
left a dark spot that still freaks me out
when I think about the dangers
of lead poisoning.
My nails often break,
and the paint is perpetually chipped.
Maybe that’s why
you don’t want to hold
my hand anymore –
too rough and scarred like yours.
Too much like the past.
They’re not different enough
from what you remember,
even though we joke
about sharing a brain cell and your
ex isn’t anything like me
except that we’ve both loved you.
Sometimes I wish my hands
looked different, looked better –
daintier, prettier, softer.
Maybe you want someone with
girlier hands,
even though you mock those
kinds of girls
and you always offer to warm
my hands
when they’re cold.
I thought I loved your hands –
but now as I wait
to see if you’ll remember to say hi,
I’m not so sure anymore.

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