the scars on my knuckles, pink and raw and sometimes holding little white mountains, in which the fingers of my left hand like to climb. at each crevice a river of deceit forms, a new story i create.
you see- the scars on my knuckles were made, in a battle with a sleek white polar bear. we faced off on an arena of ice, bearing nothing but hands as weapons. definitely. my palms held hurricanes, they destroyed everything in their path. i won, of course, but not without struggle. plenty of struggle...
the scars on my knuckles appeared, after having fallen into a thorn bush. furious needles scraped away my skin and left their mark. it was a journey to rescue a soccer ball. clearly i was a hero, and well- i had used my hands... as a shield to my face. totally did that.
a wall has formed along the border of my mind, keeping thoughts and reality at a distance for fear of war... of scaring them. knuckles holding a pink sadness, a vulnerability, introduced to me on a red night in november. a clenched fist sang as it rammed its sorry skin into cement. sea foam scrubs holding me to the ground, restraint. a jail cell made up of kind words and soft hands.