Unfinished, Project Ongoing…

Hands

Forgive me if my hands are not soft like his,

If their torn up touch invokes thought of tripping on concrete or tumbling off a bike.

But the cuts tell the story of how I fell for you.

The tips of the fingers on my left, calloused like shale from some far away quarry,

Brittle but strong,

Grown over months so I may play chords that carry the weight of your passion smile.

My knuckles are volcanoes,

Split open each day, they erupt with the rage of a thousand bottled up “No”s,

A hundred missed chances, a million times I vailed to say hello. The red of my blood conveys my embarrassment,

Not in my cheeks but in my clenched fist.

My Scars are my log-book,

The time my friends pulled a hook out of my little finger are the day I sliced my pointer to the bone,

All the hooks and spines and clues buried in my skin. Past leave traces in my skin present as proof of all these hands endured to be here holding yours.

So forgive me if there’s a little rough around the edges,

I am too,

But I hope that’s something you always knew.

——Bunny, written on a wall of Lauinger Memorial Library, Georgetown University