My palms were never soft. If you ever held my hand you’d feel they’ve been chiseled and worked with.
They’re not fleshy, they’re not silken. They don’t possess any generic mark of femininity.
They are flat and pale. Like a slab of colorless granite. Green veins pulsate beneath my cold, pasty skin.
The upper terrain is rigged and rough, with blotches of sun burns I try to hide.
My palms are so even, so toned. There is no plumpness to denote that they were ever fostered or caressed.
So when you hold them, you might flinch, but you’ll come to know what years of struggle does to a pair of hands.
Because unlike other women, I never had a chance to be soft.