Dear Diary

My body is a diary

A record of the hands I've known

I know it's been said

This is nothing new, noteworthy, or original

But that doesn't make it any less true

I have entries that I look back on quite fondly

The caress of loving hands

The tight and warm hug of a friend

A back rub from my mother

A small and quiet show of sympathy and understanding

The feel of my father's hands as he would carry me on his shoulders

The soft, innocent kiss of a first love

The pinch on my cheek that always left a tinge of warmth

As grandparents tend to do

These bring me joy and a lightness that is hard to describe

For you cannot see the smile on my cheeks that transcends any word I could use

Within the same pages of the recounting of my history

Are stories that I do not wish to remember

But my mind chooses to remind me of them regardless of any request I make

As though the bruises and scars were not enough

 The "please stop" I choke out within my head

Seems eerily similar and all too reminiscent

Of the past that I am trying to block out

My smile disappears

And my eyes glaze over in clouds of darkness

As I stare off

As though the space before me is a projector of my memories

These hands

They were not warm and kind

Cold, unfeeling, rough

Ambitious

Insatiable

Please,

Stop

Deaf

Deaf hands pulling fabric

Grabbing skin

Relentless

Invasive

Demanding

Unapologetic

Once they are done

I can focus on the pain instead

And try pick myself up and move forward

I lock these happenings within my journal

Hiding beneath jeans and loose hoodies

Ugly sweatshirts too big for my body

Because I am ashamed

And perhaps it may deter hands from tearing through my pages once again

It didn't work

I try to reteach myself how to accept loving embraces

And delicate touches

I try not to think of everyone as a potential threat

I try to grow

Be wary

But trusting

Despite so many hands giving me every reason not to

In a world where those hands become leaders

Teachers

Judges

Those sworn to protect

And to serve

Is it truly so horrible of me

To be so hesitant to trust?

These hands are living their futures

While I am too scarred and broken to move on with mine

-j.p.