I wake up some days not loving who I am
And on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
I remember days when I thought they were perfect.
These delicate angels that defy fragility; they belonged somewhere.
I remember thinking I would be a hand model.
At the fragile age of 10, I knew what I was put on this earth for.
It was meant to be.
My perfect hands could do anything.
McDonald’s would want them in their Big Mac commercials.
Revlon would want my healthy cuticles to model nail polish
I could learn sign language and open up worlds of possibilities.

I remember the day I shared my dream with my mother,
“Mom, I’m going to be a hand model,” I said with appropriate gravity.
“But, honey,” she replied, “your ******* is crooked.”

I wake up some days not loving who I am
And on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
The shattered dreams they hold with every imperfection—
The broken what ifs and crooked middle fingers
More crooked with every nervous crack of a knuckle
And syncopated snap, snap
with every ******* and broken promise
I forget what it’s like to trust

I wake up some days wanting to go back to sleep
Back to my dream with my perfect hands
that with a touch could turn plastic to steel
turn thieves to Robin Hoods, turn the weary to the wise
with my perfect hands that
gave youth to the old, clarity to the young
sanity to the misunderstood and
promise to the dreamers
hope to the hopeless and
a smile to the ones who have already given up

back to my dream where
my lips aren’t sealed, but my hands are
a cupped offering of sweetness, concentrated
But honey, your ******* is crooked
And I wake again in a warm sweat.

My perfect hands are lonely
And impatient
They want to be warm again
Like they used to be when they were perfect
Whole, like when they held another.

I wake up some days not loving who I am,
and on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
But on some days, I forget about my crooked *******.