Soft Hands

You say
I have soft hands,
as if I've never worked
a day
or hurt them,
never rubbed them
raw
or had blisters
or held on
until the skin fell off.

You comment
that they are
too soft,
like my touch
isn't good enough,
like you'd prefer
callouses
and cuts
to silk and love.

How your words
wound,
your assumptions
of this life I lead
simply because
my hands
don't show
the pain
in my heart.

Maybe I'm just better
than you
at hiding
the scars.