Hands

As I write this , I glance down at my hands. They arenít in too bad of shape, still smooth, very few scars on my palms. My veins and bones stick out, but that is normal. Maybe a freckle or two, but nothing special. I work my way up to the fingers. Still not much to talk about. I wear a ring on my right hand, a dolphin circlet. The ring has no significance, other than the fact that I bought it because I like dolphins. Then I worked my way up to my nails. They are not in as good as shape as the rest of my hands. The skin around them is ragged, scarred, brown and torn. I have several hang nails, many are painful. My nail polish is chipping off, making my nails look worse. I use nail polish to cover the dirt under my fingernails, and I usually have no idea how it got there. My left thumb nail is very long, the others are longer than some. Still, many are splitting or ragged, because I have a terrible habit of biting them. In fact, my nails are quite ugly if not covered in their nail polish.

Now, your probably thinking, what does this have to do with anything. Well, as I look at my hands, I see my life. What a weirdo, you might say. Well, yes, I suppose I am a weirdo, a freak. But I truly see them as my life. My palms are what I show the world, nearly perfect, maybe for some a few scars or a freckle or two, just to add spice to life. This is what I am willing to show the world. Just because I show it doesnít mean that it is really who I am. My palms donít describe my whole hand, like I mentioned in the above paragraph. When you get to my fingers, well, these are the branches I donít mind showing to friends, but they are limited to certain things.. A different branch for every friend, or group of friends. Lines, or eras in your life, are more defined, like your fear of the boy who broke your window or losing a parent. Jewelry indicates different things. My ring is a symbol of something I truly love, even though it may not be of any significant value to others I tend to share it with them.

Ah, but what about the nails, you are asking. My nails, and the skin around them, are the real, hidden me. I donít let anyone see the real me, I cover it up with so many layers of polish. Many of my scars, my emotional ones, are hidden here. My tension, true fear, and anxiety are shown in the ragged, split nails. The pain of this area is the pain I feel to keep this hidden, but I endure it. The uneven edges and different lengths are all the things in my life I try to keep balanced, like my homework, chores, and social life. Sometimes, though, it is very hard to keep these things in balance, and everything falls out of the way it should. The dirt hidden beneath my nails represents all the secrets, lies, and gossip that I have had in my life. I try to clean it away, and deny that I knew where it came from, but since that is another lie, it just continues to build up. The nail polish is my attempt to hide the real me, trying to blend it in with my nicer fingers. Although it chips, it never gets to the point where I reveal the true me to anyone. Nail polish remover cannot remove it all, I have painted over the real me so many times to keep it hidden I can barely find it.

I used to think of myself as a person who didnít mind showing the real me to the world. Now I realize that I was just adding another coat to my nails instead of removing one. I know it will take time, but I can remove the nail polish. It may never happend, and it is against all odds, at least at this point in my life. I truly hope to remove it all from my life. The only thing that is not removable is the dirt. Lies, secrets, and gossip can never go away. The ones that have already been told, the gossip that has already been spread, canít be washed away. They have left their ugly scars and marks in me, and the people they were about.

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