Look at my palms- the insides of my hands where I hold things that I love.

what if I told you that the calluses covered everything, a mirror of my humour.

what if I told you that my nails are bitten down

not because of habit but because of necessity,

the work that I do that makes them useless as defenders.

what if I told you that the swollen patches are not from heavy labour but from heavy passion,

like the swelling that can deflate easily in my thoughts

when I put bandages over it.

what if I told you that the blisters and pink shiny patches still healing

from stress mark where I have made marks in my life

like the stories etched in my palm lines,

unlike the etchings that make me sore; these are proud.


tell me where my hands have been.

look at the white tapes:

they crucified me,

or perhaps

I crucified myself.