Cracked

What would you not touch, if every touch brought you closer to the flame?

Would you swaddle your tender baby, if she sees it makes you wince?

Would you caress your lover with hands sheathed in grit?

Can you scribble "Congratulations!" large enough to cover the blood?

A real man works with his hands; a gentleman holds the door. Where is your strength and how do these tiny cuts enfeeble he who wrestled monsters, the one who bore us on his shoulders?

What corruption did you let in? Were these hands ever clean?

Do they hate you back?