His hands were pale and pink from the cold. It looked like there was a freeway underneath his skin. To hold his hand was like walking into a cold room; it sent shivers down your spine. Every bone was defined and his wrist was petite. Some would say he had skeleton hands, I said his hands were thin from playing with the hem of his shirt so often. People told him to eat more, to put on weight. But I understood. What became of him is because of those same people. The people that talked too much and voiced their opinions too often. Those people wanted him one way, but when they got what they wanted, they criticized it. They created him.

His hands lost color and began to turn a chilling cold more often. I held his hands and played with his fingers. I drew circles with my thumb while telling him I loved him. I begged for him to seek help. He told me it's better this way, they wanted him like this. I tried to tell him he was better than the rest, that he had a life to live. "But so do they," he said, "and this is how they want me to live mine."

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My hands were always cold. She thought my veins looked like a freeway under my skin. Each time she held my hand she reminded me my hands were cold, as if I didn't already know. I hated my hands, h***, I hated everything about myself. But when her fingers intertwined with mine I felt alive. People wanted me to gain weight. Those same people consistently called me fat and ugly. She loveed me no matter how I looked. They wanted me to lose weight, they created me.

My hands were a constant cold. She'd put my hands in hers and warm them. She drew circles on my palm and it sent chills down my spine. "I love you," she told me "but you need to seek help." I looked at her as if I didn't already know. She looked back with pleading eyes on the verge of tears. "You're better than them, you have a life to live." She added. "But so do they," I retorted "And this is how they want me to live mine."