Hands

She fell in love with his hands. They weren't pretty or neat. They were misshapen and his nails were cut way too deep. But she fell in love with his hands. She fell in love with the imperfection of it. She fell in love with the way she wanted to touch them but couldn't. She would have given so much for him to take her hands into his. She wanted him. All of him, but his hands were something else. She fell in love with them.

She didn't know that one day those hands would wrap around her throat to strangle her. She didn't know that one day those hands would touch her in places she didn't want to be touched.
She wrote only sad stories about the hands she saw in her dreams. It would make realising he wasn't made for her easier. It was a flawed plan though, because she didn't know how to write sad stories about the hands that gave her butterflies. She would scratch out her stories, she couldn't bare looking at the lies she has scribbled.
He didn't see her hands. He didn't see the slits on her wrists. He didn't see her. He saw another girl and she saw him and nobody saw the girl who loved him, who would have loved him for years.
Years she never got to live because this love killed her. His hands were the end of her and he never got to see hers.