She hides her hands in her baggy sleeves.
Her hands are too dangerous to be seen.

She has done unspeakable things with them.
To herself,
To others.

Her hands are agents of pain
Whether it’s landing a punch on a friend’s arm for stepping behind her back,
Paying for something she insisted was hers to cover.

Or the choke hold she has on a razor, tracing her skin in red ink,
A suicide note that will never be read.

Each action wounds, yet both hurt others more than they hurt her.

Her friends are upset for she has hit them too hard
Their kindness met with violence.
They only wanted to help,
Yet her hands betrayed her again.

When they see what marks she made on herself,
They cry because they know they can’t stop her.
They plead but her hands don’t listen.

She offers empty words in return .
“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The truth hangs in the air, unspoken, following her like a storm.
Did she not mean it?
Or is she just using apologies like bandages,
Covering the wounds she inflicts pretending they heal?

She says she’s sorry for hurting herself.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,”
The lie escapes her lips.
She is not sorry.
She does not regret the way her skin feels warm beneath the sting

You warm yourself by wearing a borrowed sweater
She warms herself with the edge of a stolen blade.

She hides her hands in her sleeves,
Not to protect herself,
To shield others from the horror of what her hands can do.
They are not innocent—they never were.

She hides her hands so you won’t be scared of her,
Most of all, so she won’t have to face them either.