I
remember
your
hands –
how
soft
they
looked,
how
hard
they
felt
against
my
skin
over
and over
as
they slammed
into
me,
trying
to mold me
into
something
or
someone
more
like you.
No
one ever knew
what
those hands could do.
Not
like I did.
Not
like I do.
Because
let’s not pretend
those
hands
don’t
still leave a mark.
Your
handprint
isn’t
just a memory to me,
but
rather a scar
I’ll
have long after you’re gone.
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