Soul Spoken, Unheard Words

My Hands.

Pale white skin, chunky fingers, crevasses, un painted finger nails. 
They can be rough when I need to be not afraid to shed some blood. Open wounds, paper cuts, scars and stove burns.
Fighting over her or defending myself against him.
Pinky finger made for promises that aren't meant to be broke but sometimes do, Ring finger made for a diamond that connects you with your once upon a time and happily ever after, Middle finger made for the haters that said you'd never be shit in life, Pointer finger made for giving directions pointing out all the good and sometimes bad things in life.
Thumbs made for balancing things between my fingers grasping it tight and never letting go. 
Hold my hands.
Feeling your skin against mine as they touch, feeling your heart beat speed up thru the pulse on your wrists, tingling fingertips, so cold yet so warm, the warmth of my hand traveling to yours. That's better.
Squeezing your hand tight as we go down the roller coaster, lifting our arms up in unison screaming at the top of our lungs, but yet never separating.
Feeling my teardrops on your shirt as you take my hand in yours rubbing your thumb over it ever so lightly, a way of letting me know everything will be okay.
Face to face, hands to cheek, pulling you close to me as we share our first but not last kiss.
Secret handshakes with my best friend, snapping, clapping, rubbing, stubbing.
Pats on the back, slap across the face, Twirling my hair in between my fingers, biting my nails from nervousness, Using my hands to write this poem, type this poem, Using my thumb to scroll as I stand up on stage and read this poem.
My hands are small but they tell a big story, a story that not even my finger tips could explain, my hands are strong, holding up the weight of my life in them, digging a hole 6 feet under and burying the past with them, never forgetting I've got my whole world in my hands.