In My Hands

I love my hands. 

I hold them up against the light of the screen right now as I type. There’s a little bit of paint on my right, and an outline of a potential tattoo on my left. I have a scar running down the left side of my left hand, that I got from running down a hill chasing after a boy I thought I loved. The tips of my fingers are permanently puckered from a year and a half of working in a grocery store, cutting slimy cactus by the pound. 

I love my hands.

I could hold you with them, or I could shut the door in your face for the last time, and mean it. I swear. I could count on my fingers the number of times I’ve visited the land that I call home. I could run them through my hair, but I think I’d prefer running them through yours. 

Man, I love these hands.

Because they are useful, and because they are mine. 

I can use my hands as a vehicle to self-care. I can rub my cold arms and create friction, create warmth. I can use them to say, “No. This is my space. '' I can write. I can spill my soul on paper. I can wipe my tears away. 

To love yourself is a war, and it’s a war that rages long. Some days, some years, the battles are won. Other days, it feels like it will never be done. Today, I use my hands to pick myself up.

I love my hands because they are the beginning, they are the method, and they are the means to an end.