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by: Pamela Abreu

I always believed

cold hands were the best.

Always envied those with

cool, icy hands.

My hands,


unable to retrieve those

icy, cold hands.

I encountered his hands.

They weren’t cold,

they were piercing



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



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

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