Cold Hands

It is said that people with cold hands are the most joyous people to be around, that they have not chill in their hearts because all of their sadness is stored in their hands. Their small hands contain so much sorrow…I envy them. For my hands were never ice. My large hands, overheated with warmth I could not share, is my curse. They so not hold my sorrows, but my heart and eyes do. My large hands, which could hold every sorrow, only captivate warmth that I cannot use. These large hands are my enemy, a threat to the world. They can hurt, but they can love. they can kill, but they can save. Bipolar are my mangled hands, but cold wisps are not. These hands, which could spread warmth to my heart, keep me cold and frozen from the rest of the world. These large sunlit hands do not match my cold and frostbitten heart. Covered in ice and frozen by wind, only the sun can eclipse the moon and wake me from this black dream; but it refuses. Frozen, which is my heart, it tries to extinguish the last of my once mighty flame. Inching closer to my large hands, it drips from my wrist; bitter, yet scolding. The pain of my spreading sorrow crawls back to its snow-capped sanctuary, plotting revenge, but only to be forgotten as it seeps from my wrist once more. Feelings such as these should be colorized and taken away by the messengers, the wind, to another flame the is willing to share its warmth, but who will rekindle my flame, and spark the embers that have died so long ago? When will love ever reach my dying self? And when will fire melt the sorrow and show me a vibrant world? That, I do not know. So, for now, I will see the world in grey and white, I will continue to stay trapped in this eternal winter, and I will constantly absorb a kindling flames sorrows, so that no flame shall perish, and so that one day I can rid of this curse and shine bright once more. I shall keep those cold hands Alive.