It's touched the walls of my mother, to the palms of my father. It's felt the heart of my lover and tickled the socks of my brother. It's tossed sticks and stone and it's even broken a few bones. In later years, it began to feel the rigidness of cold blades and the warmness of fresh blood. It's memorized every curve, every line of my no good of a body. It's wiped away salty tears cried by my mother, cried by my brother, cried by my lover. It's punched holes in walls and bruised my own heart. But soon my hands began to yearn the warmth of him, to experience something, anything, rather than pain. So finally, my hands felt love. His own hand, his blonde hair, his skin, his scarred limbs. But most importantly, him.