Her hands were scarred,
rough and calloused,
bloody and bruised.
But she carried on,
as her job required her to.
His hands were quite large,
soft and warm,
nails in a perfect oval form.
But no one saw the scars on his back,
the pain of the abuse,
He just carried on,
as life required him to.
We come from different stories,
Our hands don't tell the truth,
Having scarred hands doesn't make you a victim of abuse.
We are all scarred,
Though you can't see it on our skin,
Our hearts, our souls
Are rotting deep within.
We cannot solve the problem,
But perhaps we can still win,
If we all join hands,
Bloody and bruised,
Delicate and polished,
And show people the beauty underneath our skin.
YOU ARE READING
Oleander-COMPLETED
PuisiALL RIGHTS RESERVED Her words were like oleander flowers, so delicate, like a gossamer spider string, but poisonous, like her scarred, despondent heart. *in other words, my crap poetry that is still really important to me*
