I genuinely dislike my hands.
I've got my ma’s hands
But they're not effeminate
They’re large and hairy; I have big bones - I have big fingers
I love my body, I love my skin, I love my shape, I love my hair and features
I love every inch
But it stops at my hands.
They’re scarred, large knuckles from build up of punching wall upon wall
I have nice nails
The very tip, where my body meets the world
And it’s just this space in between, where I can't quite seem to grasp existence
As much as I hate to admit it, they are me
A perfect representation of who I am, what I am
I don't pay it much attention but now and then I’m reminded
These hands that shake and refuse to feel real
These hands that are destructive
My life is condensed into these hands.