I don’t mean to cower at the hands that sustain Me.  
Old anger-cracked palms imprint my mind,  
And fear spreads quietly within me.  
With every touch, I falter at the warmth and Weight it holds—  
Afraid to break, yet too proud to fold.  

Deep inside, where biting fear and nipping Doubt reside,  
A fragile seed of trust begins to grow,  
But pain divides.  

In time, it could have blossomed into a Marigold,  
But the hands played God long before it could Unfold,  
Crushing the petals with a grip tired and cold,  
Snapping the roots, leaving no chance to hold.  

And yet the hands have been missing for years From my mind—  
Gone from their influence, awakened from their Lies.  
So what am I still afraid of?  
Why do I tremble when you bring your hands Close?  
Probably because I can’t tell if they are going to Caress my face  
Or tear at my throat.