I can't seem to be able look at my hands anymore. Every time my eyes stray towards my fingers, as I type these words out, as I'm riding my scooter, as I raise my spoon to my lips, I avert them. Because I just can't look at them.
They remind me of how I broke everything. How I dashed it all to pieces against the ground. They remind me of sandcastles in the air which I crushed. Of dreams I built so carefully and then tore into fragments, each flying in a different direction.
They remind me how weak I am, can be. They remind me how I cut myself when I tried to pick the pieces up and how I gave up because it hurt too much. They remind me that the thing those pieces were part of wasn't mine to break, wasn't mine to destroy.
My hands, my fingers, they remind me of what I let go of. What I used to hold on to so tightly. They remind me how you used to fit and how I let you go. They remind me of the things I used to write, the crumpled papers and the letters. They remind me of dark movie theatres, of cold nights and how your pocket was always warmer than mine.
The chewed up cuticles remind me of a deal we made.
The veins on the back of my hand don't stick out any more because now all I have to hold on to is empty air.
I cannot look at my hands anymore. They remind me of you too much.