The Hand that holds is the Hand that kills.

Holding all that I am,
all that I'm not
in your broken hands.
Crushing and caressing my tattered heart,
with a single sweep of motion.
Squishing it's cardinal color
through your thin fingers,
letting it splatter across the page...
painting her painful memories
across my grey mind.
Cutting each jittering nerve in my body,
with your surgical steel scalpel,
writing her words
and your pain into the walls of my stomach.
Your bare - boned fingers,
brush across my pale skin,
leaving behind a bloody trail
of "our" broken love .....
and pain.
As your skeletal hands,
slip through my auburn hair,
I watch it all fall and hit the concrete floor
and then blow away with the wind of your words.
Holding all that I am,
all that I'm not
in your broken hands...
fingers too sharp, to show love.