by: Pamela Abreu
I always believed
cold hands were the best.
Always envied those with
cool, icy hands.
My hands,
warm
unable to retrieve those
icy, cold hands.
I encountered his hands.
They weren’t cold,
they were piercing
numbing
sharp.
I stare at his hands,
the fear illuminating from my eyes.
He tried to feel my warm touch,
but ended up feeling much more.
It wasn’t my fault.
At least I don’t think it was.
I mean I like cold hands.
I liked cold hands.
His hands.
His bitter
forbidding
hands.
Grazing down my arm
as the goosebumps on my body
attempt to warn me.
I could feel his hands
changing me.
Transforming me into something
that wasn’t me.
His hands marking me.
His touch
becoming a part of me.
The ghost of his hands
linger across my body.
He never asked if I was ok.
Never once stopped
even after I flinched at the touch of fingerprints.
The monster that haunts my dreams.
I no longer like cold hands.
No longer urge for that feeling of wanting.
wanting to feel