My hands were smooth and soft
before hammer, ax and saw
rubbed weeping blisters
to cover pink skin.
White snaking scars over knuckles
and blisters leather
into living gloves for
armored claws to keep the world
an arm away.
My heart will not leather so.
Hard use hardens my hands,
but not my bruised and beaten heart.
No scars can shield,
no calluses can cushion
a heart which will not harden.
Love never hurt my open heart
It soaks through skin and bone
like warm summer dew,
to find my heart ragged and torn,
but still I cannot fear new love,
for every cut and tear
is an exit wound.