His hands

I learned to question what love is by the way his hands felt. The ruffness that they always were. The way they accompanied the glare in his eyes and the smile on his face. They way they grabbed,  pushed down, held down, the way they never let go. I questioned his love when he used those hands to sweep my hair back and whisper in my ear, telling me that this, this is how daddies show their love as his hands grazed my body. He was the animal and I was the pasture. I was filled with green luscious grass and beautiful flowers and a sunset that mesmerized anyone who watched it rise. But he clawed away at my pasture, ripping it to shreds. He poured hot acid all over me, now I am nothing but a wasteland where nothing grows. A place where nothing but darkness resides. Patting me on the ass as he walks away as if to say "that was a job well done" "you did good" I did good. I let you destroy me. I let your hands ruin everything that was mine, they reached inside my soul and pulled out what makes me real, what makes me exist. And now I lay in this bed as an empty shell of nothing thinking of him, and him and that one and that one to and the money that they paid and the way they all smelled and hands....hands, hands everywhere crawling all over me like spiders always searching and looking to take more when there is nothing left already.

I was once beautiful and untouched a delicate rose who just wanted to grow and bloom and become what I was ment to. Then he came and cut me down while telling me that he loved me. I laid there dying trying to reconnect my broken stems, then he came again, and they all came in, carrying hatchets in their hands, cutting me to pieces, plucking off my beautiful petals and carving the word LOVE into each one, leaving me there as nothing, leaving me there to wait for the wind to blow me away.

Once I was untouched and then the day came that he told me he loved me and his hands molded a wasteland out of my body like it was clay.