Khamsa

 

I used to hate my hands long ago.

In 9th grade, the first one 

With slutty red nails.

The girls talked behind my back,

The boys were too scared to talk at all.

Then over the years, they changed.

Only the left was feminine, the right

Cooked and cleaned, and typed and slaved.

One scratched backs in throes of passion,

The other packed the shreds away.

It was like I was two different people in one.

Crazy and sensual, plebian and analytical.

I switched to pastels and browns,

Tried hard to be someone and 

Yet keep someone, I just couldn't let go.

But time decided the long ends were done.

They had to bathe and feed,

Stop the sharpness from cutting delicate skin.

For once, I was bare, stripped away 

From all pretensions of what I tried

So hard over the years to be.

I looked at them, they were ugly.

My hands did not belong to me.

I envied people with long fingers,

I looked away when I saw others,

Manicured and pale, like a trophy,

That men like to hold; I couldn't 

Decide who I was anyway.

Now all I have is crass looking hands,

But they can still make others tremble 

And hide away. Shivering as I appear,

Tucked inside armpits. But I still see

What their clutching fingers try to say.

My hands can heal, my hands are magic,

They can touch and take your pain away.

They look ordinary but don't be fooled.

They are nothing like anyone else's.

Eyes can be the mirror to your soul,

But hands, they are a step ahead.

Don't shake hands with anyone.

Because if you do, even your soul

Will melt and kneel down in submission

To what you know, but don't know yet.

What you want, but never could receive.

Even if you dream of it every single night,

Even if you push it away every single day.