Stigmata

these are my hands, and you have seen them before. you stare between my eyes, much like how I imagined God would stare at His wayward worshipers. these are my palms, with lines that match the novels of the planets, and stars, and heavenly rocks. my hands are small, and are never broken. my palms are wretched, as I grip on this barbed-wire fence. I see you across the border, but I do not worship. my hands will fit yours, but my palms are already bleeding.