The Hands

No one pays to the description or how the hands operate.So this poem os tp express how the hands tell different stories.

My long dangly bright yellow hands which have once taken twenty dollars from my grandmother. Stolen books out the library, from the book fair just because it had pretty colors. The hands that were clasped in handcuffs as I watched my mom cry and scream don’t take my baby away. The hands that were released from the metal steel and instead held on to the bars of a cold cell waiting for my mom to come and get me. The hands that took a knife and carved tally marks into the cell wall. The hands that rubbed my mother's face when she came to see me. The face told how sorry she was that I had to spend the week in there. At least that’s how I wanted to see it anyway. Reality is the face I saw was a cold face that showed her disappointment. She laughed when I said mommy help me. But I was left alone in that cold cell.

The bright shade of brown that was my boyfriends which connected with my face when he slapped me for the first time. We were sitting on the patio of his house when I told him we were done. When he asked why I said I moved onto someone else. His hand grazed my face when my mouth finally closed. His hand that used to hold my hand as we walked through the mall. Couples everywhere surrounding us looking lost in their love. But I was alone in love with my hand being gripped tightly in his. I was an object to him, a piece of meat. I was his property while I was in love with him. His fist which made contact with my face when I told him I wouldn’t walk the corner. His gun which threatened to fire when I wouldn’t rob a bank with him. His arms which made my neck swell, his arms which I died in. His foot which tried to wake me up. His hands that tried to wake me from my peaceful slumber. His breath that entered my body pushing my chest up and down. His tears which washed over my face as I started to decay. My eyes which watched the whole thing frozen in space. My feet which sank to the floor in awe. My hands which almost gripped that cold cell wall again.

My hands that took the weed from another's hands. My eyes that were droopy, and hung over my lids. His hand that raked up and down my body while I lay there fighting him. In the back of my mind my hands were saying no while my head was saying it'll be over before you know it. My stomach that purged a week later because I found out I was pregnant. And I knew the rapist was the father despite my disbelief that he raped me raw. As my hands touched my flat belly my eyes kept seeing flashbacks of that night. The doctor’s hands which took the baby out of me before it even had a chance to breath. My mind which thinks only if I had the baby maybe this world would mean something to me. But I couldn’t bring another life into this world when I didn’t have a well fit hold on my own.

No one pays attention to the way the hands work. No one paid attention to the stories that hands tell. No one paid attention to my constant black eyes, and the steady bruises that ran up and down my body. Nobody paid attention to the way I would cuddle in bed in fear waiting to hear the door slam and his body to darken the doorways path. Nobody dared take notice until I had no more breath in me. Until I could never walk again using the steady pace of my wheelchair. Lost my legs one day messing around with the love of my life despite his lack of love for me. He didn’t stop beating me until he realized he couldn’t survive in this world without me. But now he has to live without me, while I haunt his dreams every chance I get. Make him remember everything his heart destines to forget. This is the life I lived every single day since I met him. My life which ended after seven long years. Maybe next time someone; anyone will pay attention to the way the hands operate. Maybe next time they’ll see the signs before their fate are to be defined like mine.