Palms scrubbing, forearms exposed;
months have passed and still, there are remnants jutting from under my clothes.
My heart’s been sewn and yet
those memories still show –
these hands know how it feels to be alone.
Steam and shame,
I see the strokes of my hopelessness.
My mind can cope and yet
my pain is still disclosed.
Others see, others know.
Suds and purity,
pouring over these hands,
Grime for all to see.
Still, my past may always be present,
but it won’t own me.
At the kitchen sink, they may always be seen.
But these scars have healed.
I’ve been set free.
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