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Poem

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



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