Hands hands hands.
Hands all around me.
Hands that trace my lips.
Hands that pull my clothes.
Hands that pinch my skin and trail down my back and punch my arms.
Hands that no one else feels.
Hands that are not real.
Hands that leave me shaking, crying, hurting everywhere.
I go to brush them away.
They are still there.
I want them to stop, I beg them to stop, I scream at the top of my lungs
But they do not.
Because they are just hands.
Hands that do not belong to anyone.
Hands that are not there.
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Comments about this poem (Hands by Eliza Crawford )
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