You wouldn't believe if you saw my hands, calloused, worn.
Steeped in the blood of all my dead dreams.
Shot one by one in a row like guilty offenders.
The wrinkles on my face, each a tale of their own, of seas crossed and mountains climbed, hopes dashed and tossed into the Ocean.
You wouldn't believe if you saw my feet blistered, cracked.
Dyed purple for I was a slave,
treading on beauty and squeezing the juices out of it.
My body is a map with highs and lows, mountains and valleys, ridges and troughs all leading to the same direction.
You wouldn't believe if you saw my eyes, empty but for light.
Hope still shines there, through the cracks.
These are my hands and feet, my face and my body but you wouldn't believe if you saw my eyes.
disclaimer: Typed on my phone late at night