I lay in bed and when I can't sleep my arm hangs loosely over the edge, and I watch as the sweat pours from my palms and drops to the floor.
I imagine the drops of sweat to resemble the tears I've shed as they dissolve into my bedroom carpet, as I think about all the people who decided to not want to know me just because of a physical deformity that's hard for me to alter, or the soon to be strangers who I grazed skin with and frowned as they winced in disgust at my damp hands, or you because you refused to touch me unless it was to caress my lips because they were not a flaw of mine.
I create rivers with my hands and oceans with my feet.
I create guns with my hands and pistols with my feet.
Because there are people who only look for beauty that is skin deep.
