Poem- My Fingertips Are Tender

Running my fingers through my hair.
Caressing the flower I placed there.
Spinning the CD around my index.
Adjusting the necklace around someone else’s neck.
My fingertips are warm.

Picking up broken glass.
Massaging the stress out of my own back.
Wrapping my hands around a cup of wine.
Interlacing my digits with a hand that is mine.
My fingertips are cold.

Typing away, I’m a keyboard slave.
Pointing out the pretty princes and the slimy knaves.
Massaging my eyes, waiting for the end of the day.
Tapping on a desk that binds me to all work, no play.
My fingertips are numb.

Grabbing my pillow, hoping it will hide me.
Pulling my sheets so no one can see
The warm wetness I must now wipe from my cheeks,
because I feel you lay your hands on me.
Bruises that are deeper than skin deep,
I’ve been digging my escape from the memories that keep
me trapped inside my chaotic mind.
As I claw at the dirt and feel the sun,
My hands are raw,
my arms are numb,
and my fingertips…
My fingertips are tender.