By Nikki
Date: 16 May 2000

Hands

I have a perfect picture
in my head of hands.
Big strong hands
meant to hold me,
protect me.
Hands with perfectly 
manicured nails, no calluses.

Then I see your hands.
Small, nails half bitten, 
half cut.
You have calluses from
years of hard work.

When compared to my hands,
they seem so small.
So mow I have big man hands,
and you with your little boy hands.

But when my eyes close
I remember your hands,
lightly tracing patterns
on my heated flesh,
nails scratching over sensitive skin,
rough fingers curling to hold me
when the nightmares rear their ugly heads.

I question the picture 
of those perfect hands.

I look back to
us walking hand in hand
how perfectly our fingers
meshed, as if cut for one 
another.

I remember my Daddy's hands.
They weren't big or perfect,
but he protected me just fine.

I am forced to trash
my picture perfect hands.
Your beautiful hands
move me just fine.

Besides, who needs big hands
to protect me?
You've got a gun, Baby!

5/15/00  nl