Looking down at my hands,
I can see the power they hold,
The ability to show strength,
Or bring pain to the body, mind, and soul.

As I stare at my hands,
The makers of pain,
I wish to myself,
That those scars weren't the same.

As if I didn't feel
Mentally disfigured enough,
Now physical deformities
Brought upon me too;
I've had enough.

I can’t stand how I look,
I hate the way I feel,
I can’t take the judgment,
It’s too personal and real.

I feel like my brain is imploding,
It’s quickly shutting down.
I can’t help it
But my brain’s first reaction
Is to block out all sight and sound.

I watch those faint markings
As they dance around my hands,
They remind me of who I was
And where I've been,
But not who I am.

Those markings resemble
The battles I've lost;
I always tried to win,
I've always put up a fight
Regardless of the eternal cost.

Those lines and patterns,
They show where I've come from,
But not where I’ll go,
But then again,
At this point,
Who really knows.