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Hands

A poem about my depression

By Bevan Tse-stuartPublished about a year ago 1 min read
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I looked at my hands today. They are the hands of a man who should not have worked a hard day in his life. Long slender fingers that should have been unblemished. Soft Palms that could show love at just a touch. Thin wrists that would not have carried the weight they did. Nails so pristine they looked almost manicured. But these are my are not my hands.

Here are my hands. Callouses grow thick in the nooks of my fingers. Nails torn off and bitten to sharp edges. White speck spreading in every inch of every nail. Scars tattoo the backs of my palms. Cuts cover every inch of my knuckles and bruises grow along the bones. Cuticles torn till blood pours from places unseen behind the skin.

I have not been kind to my hands. I had the hands of a musician and I wanted them. My touch could have been so soft. So warm. And now my hands lie Here. Smashed upon boulders of pain. Damaged beyond repair. Fractures splitting down the bones from my last outburst of pain. Of anger. Cold like my mind. Warmth siphoned off by an unseen terror in my brain. A mere extension of this lifeless husk I feel myself becoming.

I wish I could cut these hands off and give them to someone more deserving. Someone who does not seek to destroy their own beauty because it’s one of the few things they can control. Someone who would not fear showing love through their fingers. Someone who could appreciate the care of a god to make such a perfected part of a human.

I wish these hands were free of my body.

I wish I were free of this body

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Bevan Tse-stuart

coping with depression. Mostly just me venting but any love is appreciated

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