“Hands that shed other’s blood still deserve to be held.”

At first, it was the usual. Five fingers with nails on the end, a palm and a wrist. Over time, calluses started to form, stiff and dark. Maybe from swinging on the swings or climbing a tree. Scratches appeared, as if a rose stem and pricked the palm. Maybe from flowers, maybe from overuse. There was blood on their hands. Other’s, theirs, people they loved.

It never washed off. Never. They were always stained pink.

Then something new appeared, a softness. Another’s hand in theirs, held in a gentle embrace. How one could hold a hand that had shed blood was beyond them. But they did. They kissed the lips that served biting words and loved the one who hurt others. Because, well, they had too. Never once had they thought they deserved to feel another grip in theirs and yet they now felt it everyday. The harshness of life concealed by their gentle touch.

Lips that served biting words

Still deserve to be kissed

Hands deserve to be held

Even when covered in blood

Imperfect souls

Still deserve to be loved.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d actually believe it.