Hands

I can lie to them. I can lie to myself. but I've never been a good liar.

I can hide from them. I can hide from myself. But my hiding spots keep getting broken. 

My wrists are broken, and I can't hold your hand. Which is almost okay, because your hand is afraid of mine. I'll just keep it to myself, and let it heal with my heart, like a kid who is broken, who plays with other broken kids to hide his broken wrist. 

My hand just wants me to fall in love. It hasn't ran its fingers across someone's face, to tell them they love them. 

It wants to be interlocked with that of hers, to get to know the folds on the skin of another person. To show them the lines on the inside of my hands where my fists have been clenched for far too long. to hope their lines look similar, to know if they're right for me. 

Give me a set of hands that knows where it's been, and wants to change where it's going. A set of hands who knows about my dream, and why I think it was supposed to happen. 

A set of hands that knows how to pray to God, because He knows I can't pray for myself enough with just my bloodied hands. 

Her hands are callused from lifting the weight of the world, her fingers from fretting the strings of her sins, which are a lot like calluses.

The more callused you become, the less pain you feel. Your skin turns to a hard shell that dries and cracks, but is numbed to the pain from pushing yourself too hard in places you maybe shouldn't.