crack hands

my mother says i speak with my hands. red fingertips ripped raw, scratching skin, digging holes to bones. she says the dried blood beneath my nail beds reminds her of women whose homes are shadows and alleys, who swallow grease and eat needles, who need a fix and need fixing but can't do it on their own. she says to please keep my left hand away from my right, stop your picking, jesus christ. she says i am lucky i still have skin to grow.

my grandmother passed down her bad habits. my father passed them down to me, and i have inherited every piece of dead skin they have peeled off their bodies. my grandmother picked her shoulders, my father picked his fingers and his toes. i was born a hybrid who is willing to scavenge both.

when i am ten, my mother coats my hands in lotion, the kind that smells like a head cold in the winter. she wraps gloves to my wrists in gauze, tells me to wear them while i sleep. she thinks double layers can stop me. i rip the fleece off with my teeth.

i'm at my worst when i'm with god. my mother holds my hand during the our father and won't let go until mass ends. she slaps my arm every time i pretend to fold my palms to pray but start to pick again. at penance i stain the pew when i rest my red nails on its wood. the priest and i both know i won't confess to the mess i've made even though i should. 

i learn how to shake hands with strangers and grip their palms like i am whole. lightly squeeze, dip and flip at a fifteen degree angle. i hide the animal my father sees, whose maimed joints i make look tame. the cracks in my knuckles go deeper than any routine can tame.