I am flawed

Sometimes I stare at my hands and I can't help but to think that they're hideous. Their shape and size are nothing of that of a real lady. Other times I could look at them all day and I'm impressed with their softness and character. I sit in the car in the dark and cold, my key turned backward in the ignition so I can hear music and stare at my hands. The streetlight above floods into my car. In the shadow of my only source of light, my hands are beautiful. Delicate. I slide them across the steering wheel, watching my breath make puffs into the cold December air, into the illumination of the streetlight and see disgusting stubs. No character. No experience had with these hands. That fucking thing catches the light and I quickly pass it back to the dark where I feel I am beautiful and safe. Not even sure why I'm in my car in the dark on a December night. It's fucking freezing. My jaw can't stay in one place from uncontrollable shivering. I'm not wearing gloves or a scarf while there is no heat running in the car either. Shit, my hands are disgusting. I stare at my left hand, my ring finger in particular, and I want to vomit. His ring is on my finger and it just sits there, lifeless. It's the only thing that actually looks beautiful on my hand in the light, but it's not mine; it doesn't belong to me. It's his and it always will be. I think it shows the end of me and my sanity and how it'll be about him for the rest of my life. Just as I vowed. He was great when we first met two years ago. I felt like I could trust him and keep him close to me forever. He was like a puppy. You really love its cuteness and innocence and you love how you can take care of it, be it's mommy. Yeah, well, shit happens. The puppy grew up to be a spoiled brat, always expecting with grubby paws out, but never giving. Actually, he gives me anything I want--even things I don't ask for--but he doesn't fulfill me. I don't love him. Yet we've been married for a year and he's talking children. I want kids but I really don't want them with him. My hands shake from the cold , I convince myself, and I keep them under my thighs and breathe deeply. I wish I could see the stars, but the streetlight blinds "nature's candles" as my grandma put it. Like candles on a birthday cake, God blows them out before the sun comes up. Just like candles on a birthday cake, I should make a wish on a star and blow on one from the edge of my bed. It'll come true if I see it twinkle. I used to wish for a pony. Tonight I want him to be trampled by one, so he'd at least be injured, not dead. I think of how he doesn't please me. It makes me more nauseous when I think of how he thinks he pleases me in every way, shape and form. Buying me expensive clothes, car and home. I don't give a shit about any of that though. I'm happy with the little things in life. Perhaps a love note left on the coffee table; flowers sent to work for no reason; a stuffed animal that reminded him of me. I walk into his home--it doesn't feel like mine--from my pilates class, and I feel sad and trapped. Ugly for being dumb enough to stay. He tells me I'm beautiful everyday, but he only makes me feel uglier. He randomly takes my hand and kisses it--something that used to make me weak in the knees--and I feign happiness and when he isn't looking, I wipe my hand against my pants until his slobber is gone. I feel like I carry him on my back. He's a growth that sustains life by sucking it out of me. I am drained from him. I no longer smile around him. I'm dull and pathetic. Deep down I think he knows, but he never confronts me about it. Talking about it might make it true. He's always looking to please me and keep me happy. It actually makes me crazier. I think my hands are ugly when I think of him. LIke they're alien mits, not soft porcelain. They're not delicate and never will be. I used to like my hands and I'd only wear jewelery that would attract attention to them. Since wearing his ring, I hide them and when people ask to see that "darling" ring on my finger, I grit my teeth and reluctantly give them my hand. My hands have no experience to them. No one of my age would have hands like these. I imagine women that are in love have beatiful, graceful hands and long, skinny fingers. And their fingernails would be shiny and manicured. I'm not in love thus they're stumpy and stiff with fat, clunky fingers. My fingernails are chewed to the core and I've never had a manicure. If I were in love, I could be a hand model. I don't see how amorous women couldn't not have the most beautiful hands alive. They hold their lover's heart within their hands, so they must know how to be gentle yet fierce. I'm sure their hands have knowledge and gain respect from their significant other. Mine look like they've received a third grade education. Ya know what he feels to me? When I loved him, he was a sweater that kept me comfortable during all seasons. Then I dipped my toes in the engagement lake, and once we were officially married, I belly flopped in and now my sweater is perpetually wet, draping on my body. Unflattering. And heavy. I'm confined to this sweater and think of only how i used to be my own woman with beautiful hands. Fingers that I'd outline a boyfriend's lips and mess their hair up with. Now they're sausages and I can't stand to look at them, even if I'm dialing a phone. I turn the ignition away from me and start the heat. In the shadows, they're tender and breezy and fragile. I keep my left hand tucked under my leg. My right hand placed over the Ram is beautiful and I smile. Maybe the real me is still there, but it's hidden away in the shadows. I can still find it. The heat on my face feels better than I'd imagined. I can't see my breath as much anymore. Pulling my left hand from under my leg, I quickly move it to the shadows. I don't see his ring, but just my hand. A pretty one at that. It's not so heavy from the diamond he gave me aka his burden on me. I can breathe easy now. All hope isn't lost. I'm not boring and ugly and pathetic. I only feel that way because I'm taking a break in the shadows. Maybe God will blow out the candles soon and I'll have only gracious "Libra sunlight" shed on me, as Grandma would say. The ice shell will melt and I'll be pretty again. Maybe I won't be so trapped and confined and I can stand to see the beauty of the flower's bloom again. I won't be so jealous of its unleashing to the world like it's not embarassed about its colors.