hope u like it~

your hands have never felt love–
that is, they have never been soft.
my hands have never worked a day,
not if you don’t count ink stains and
writing cramps and bitten nails.

i don’t count them–
that is, i count the ways my hands have worked,
but i do not count them against yours.

one, two:
tiny pinprick scars from pencils
in my palms, like a martyr.
i didn’t mean this when i accidentally
stabbed myself in the fourth and ninth grades
but it is a certain kind of poetry.

three, four, five:
ink stains in my cuticles
i can’t seem to wash out.
they linger too long and
the old words i’ve written
are now only a sour taste in my mouth,
a hangover.

six, seven, eight, nine:
the family ring i used to wear,
the birthmark on my left pinky,
veins like rivers, veins like potential,
my palm lines.

ten ten ten ten ten:
i want to spend a century
getting to know your hands.
what they have seen and what they will conquer.

— “hands as love letters,” d.m.n.

an older marinette 🐞🐞🐞 !!