Poems probably

My hands

My hands, my hands, my hands. It's always my hands.

They're in my writing, in my art, and they hold both on my skin at the same time, which I think is a bit funny.

They're torn up and always bleeding, I can never wash my hands without getting soap in an open cut. 

They're adorned and beautiful, with sentimental string and bead bracelets and polished nails.

They're big and tough, they've got callouses and can open any stuck thermos or mason jar they'll need to.

I don't know why I have such a fixation to my hands. It's not like it bothers me or anything, it just feels weird sometimes.

I look away from the conversation,

Away from my math work,

Away from the sun,

I look down at my hands. 

I can feel the blood moving through them, the pulse of my heart. They heat up like a stovetop and bother me beyond words, but in this whole wide world they're pretty important to me, and I think i'm glad that it's a good majority of the time that I like having them.