There are invisible scars tattooed in my palms. Spread throughout my hands shaped like a tree. Sometimes, they remind me of lighting captured at its finest moment, terrifyingly beautiful.
It has become an art form of failed love, disappointments, pains and aches and ruined friendships. The years have made my palms thicker making them more adequate for gripping things tighter. I have learned to hold on to things and make them work before letting them go so easily.
Very few have touched them and have made the effort to trace the branches of my flaws. They are those that has seen my soul perched at the top of a star, bound by the threads of their commitment, respect and love.
Every so often, a scar awakens from its solitude caused by a mishap of recent events. A reminiscence of what was once, that line of scar shines thinly brighter than the rest. Releasing an alluring flash of memories. It prods my heart and mind, and serves its purpose: a reminder.
I have high regards of my palms and gently take care of them. I see no purpose of opening them up to everyone who walks into my life. For only those willing to discern me for what I am and who I am are fitting to see the rawest form of my soul.