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.
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How lovely to see this post pop up on my feed…it’s beautiful and makes one think of all the stories we carry just inside our hands!
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Thank you so much. Means a lot. ☺️
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My pleasure (always!)!
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Stunning. Just the thought process in writing this one is wonderful. Great job as always
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Thanks Robert. 🙂
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You are a very talented writer 😄
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