His lips spoke a thousand lies, but his hands held, what once dwelled inside.
Hands that reached so far into the oblivion, valleys of scars stretch along the inner flesh of his arms.
Hands like his fathers because he didn't know them, especially when they were tightening around another's neck.
Hands that bruised then bandaged, then bruised again when they were pulled off like a new band-aid.
Hands like a broken home that could only be whole again clasped in the hands of another, or on the body of a lover.
Hands that left fingerprints on my thighs, my heart, my mind.
So I will never forget where he once dwelled inside.