Honey Hands

I can easily entice you with connotations displaying

my utmost state of vulnerability and innocence,

but this is not a sad story detailing the division of myself from You.

This is the story of how I broke free from Your hands

which were smeared with sweet honey as thick as the neglect that

You hammered into my spine,

and while everyone could see the sticky residue, only I

could see the salt that left scratches on my delicate arms

every time You reached for me,

and these delicate arms were always covered with dense cloth because

You repeatedly mentioned how these arms did not match Yours

unless they were the only arms left open for You to embrace.

And perhaps these arms were always open because they were that of a

useless door with rusty hinges in which nobody wanted to walk through,

and so the occasional visitor, such as Yourself, would distract me from fixing

such impaired pivots.

And while I would make sure that Your visits were of full accommodations,

it was only ever just

a visit,

for no matter how often I would say to You that You were perfect in every way,

and no matter how many weights I lifted to become strong enough to carry

Your burdens so You would not have to,

and no matter how hard I would

dissect the grains of

salt out of

Your hands,

You would cover them once more before You would

leave my doors,

my open arms,

yet again.

Now as a person who quite frankly enjoys routines,

this was one that exhausted my efforts into keeping such a bond,

and while I would tiredly watch You fuel off of the swarms of people

fighting for Your deceiving grasp,

it dawned on me that our friendship,

to You,

was the soft, spare pillow thrown in the corner of the closet,

and these delicate arms of mine held the broken hinges to retrieve such a cushion.

You see, a healthy friendship is not one that embellishes the outspoken while

stripping the modest.

A healthy friendship should not seem as if acknowledgment has to be earned.

A friend is not a friend if she is knowingly walking through one's door

that has yet to be fixed of its damaged axes and peeling paint.

What we had was not nourishing if you were to leave with smooth hands while I

would remain covered in salty scars.

you...

you were never a friend.

And perhaps I am crazy to want to thank you

for showing me what a true friend is not,

because a true friend is quite the opposite of you.

A true friend does not contrast the variations in our arms

because She sees no mistake in what is Hers and what is mine.

A true friend crafts His own tools to replace the faulty pivots

in which I am ready to renew.

A true friend submerges Her hands into the stickiest of honeypots

and embraces me,

leaving not a single scratch or scar.

And while a true friend

was never you,

it is because of you,

that I have taken care of my scratches,

I have fixed my rusty hinges,

and I have found

true friends.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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