Aside from the black nail polish,
My own personal act of rebellion,
I see my father's hands.
I have my mami's nose,
and eyes,
and lip shape,
and even her forehead.
We have the same forehead,
But my hands,
When I see them I see my father's hands.
Maybe I see them in an attempt,
to portray an image of his existence,
To acknowledge that he actually exists
even though he hasn't been by my side
My hands are darker than my mother's
They are slightly chubbier,
Even the darker little hairs that decorate them,
They do not look like hers at all,
so naturally, they have to look like his.
I am more reminded of him when I grip them
So tightly I almost cut the flow of blood.
So strongly the blood rushed to blush the tips of my fingers
The rage. The anger. The reminder that I am your daughter
That I carry your last name
That I am still and Forever will be,
a part of you
and you a part of me
I did not choose that.
I did not choose the anger or the love
When I have you in front of me,
I will take these, my hands
that look like yours
grip them tighter than ever before
with determination in my eyes,
aim and...
I learned how to box in an attempt,
to shape these hands to be less like you
Fighting hands, unlike yours
Strong hands, much different to yours
Passionate hands, contrary to YOU
I wear the black nail polish, to remind me and you
That these hands are yours,
tainted by the dark melody of the last kiss you gave me
Before you let me walk away.
I wear these hands masked by power,
but deep down a reminder that I am a woman,
Despite my hands being like yours.
A reminder that had you stayed,
I would probably not have the education I now have.
I look down at my hands and see yours.
Despite the black nail polish, they look like yours.
With a layer of love, willing to forgive and love
But unwilling to Forget!
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 12:44 PM UTC
Aside from the black nail polish,
My own personal act of rebellion,
I see my father's hands.
I have my mami's nose,
and eyes,
and lip shape,
and even her forehead.
We have the same forehead,
But my hands,
When I see them I see my father's hands.
Maybe I see them in an attempt,
to portray an image of his existence,
To acknowledge that he actually exists
even though he hasn't been by my side
My hands are darker than my mother's
They are slightly chubbier,
Even the darker little hairs that decorate them,
They do not look like hers at all,
so naturally, they have to look like his.
I am more reminded of him when I grip them
So tightly I almost cut the flow of blood.
So strongly the blood rushed to blush the tips of my fingers
The rage. The anger. The reminder that I am your daughter
That I carry your last name
That I am still and Forever will be,
a part of you
and you a part of me
I did not choose that.
I did not choose the anger or the love
When I have you in front of me,
I will take these, my hands
that look like yours
grip them tighter than ever before
with determination in my eyes,
aim and...
I learned how to box in an attempt,
to shape these hands to be less like you
Fighting hands, unlike yours
Strong hands, much different to yours
Passionate hands, contrary to YOU
I wear the black nail polish, to remind me and you
That these hands are yours,
tainted by the dark melody of the last kiss you gave me
Before you let me walk away.
I wear these hands masked by power,
but deep down a reminder that I am a woman,
Despite my hands being like yours.
A reminder that had you stayed,
I would probably not have the education I now have.
I look down at my hands and see yours.
Despite the black nail polish, they look like yours.
With a layer of love, willing to forgive and love
But unwilling to Forget!
