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,
I crucified myself.