My hands like my mind are gnarled from years of pain
It wasn't always bad pain
It wasn't always the fault of others
Sometimes it was circumstance
Sometimes it was art
No matter what caused it
The eating away of my flesh
The deterioration of my fragile sanity
People only see the scars
They don't see stories etched on your skin
And if they do
Those stories are often wrong
I look like a lumberjack with my hands worked thick with callouses
I sound like a full fledged adult with a mind worn by obstacles
Ear always listening
I look like a fighter white and red skin on my knuckles
The thing I fought was the hard ground
It was no cat who left the marks on my wrist
A bright red blush dulled to pink
Softened finally to white
A raised white
A white that will never hold a tan
A white that won't harbor a new freckle
A white unseen to those who never knew the story
Those who I can't trust to tell it to
Ugly hands hard to clean
Stained easily by mud or paint
Hands I feel the need to hide so often
Hands worn down by repetition
Hands worn down to give my mind a break
Hands worn down so my mind wouldn't break
Scars hold stories
Even if they're often hard to tell
