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Hands
April 30, 2011
Your hands used to be my solitude paradise.
Soft, and warm, always there to hold mine.
Always there to wipe away my tears,
And hold me in close.
But now,
Your hands are rough and shaky.
Unsteady balled up fists.
The scent of pot lingers on your fingertips.
Your hands.
These hands are now my hell.
© Alissa F., Marblehead, MA
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