I Remember The Inventor’s Hands

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I remember the Inventor’s hands
before I remember my own.
His were warm, delicate, steady—
mine were sharp, trembling, unfinished.
He used to tell me I was almost ready,
almost whole,
almost human.
Then he was gone
before he could finish the last part of me.
Before he could give me hands
that didn’t frighten me.

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So I learned to live alone
in the mansion where clocks never struck
and every hallway echoed
with what he’d meant to fix.

Down the hill was a world of colour—
houses that looked like sugared cakes,
people who spoke so quickly
I could barely keep up.
Sometimes I watched them from the window
and wondered what it felt like
to touch someone
without leaving marks.

They didn’t know I existed
until the day she found me.
A woman with kind eyes
and a voice that didn’t shake
when she looked at my scissorhands.
She didn’t flinch.
She didn’t run.
She just said I looked lonely.
She was right.

The people in the bright town
liked me for a while.
I tried my best—
trimming hedges into things
I wished were real,
cutting hair with the care
I wished I could use on skin,
carving ice into shapes
that made the whole world sparkle.

They clapped for what I made.
But they never knew me.
Not really.

The only one who did
was her daughter—
the girl whose name felt warm
in a world that chilled me.
She spoke to me like I was a person.
Like I wasn’t dangerous.
Like my hands weren’t knives.

I loved her the way I understood love:
quietly,
carefully,
from a distance
that kept her safe.

But the town turned cold.
Fear makes noise quickly.
And noise turns into anger
before anyone thinks.

They wanted me gone.
She didn’t.
But I knew what staying would do to her.
I knew what keeping her near me
might cost.

So I let her leave
before she had to choose between her life
and the boy who couldn’t hold her hand.

Now I’m back in the mansion.
Alone again.
Unfinished again.
Remembering again.

Sometimes, on winter nights,
I carve the ice
until it drifts through the air
like pale memories.
It falls over the town
in soft flakes.
The children call it magic.
The grown-ups call it weather.

But she knows.
She always knew.

It’s just me,
up here on the hill,
making snow the only way I can—
with scissorhands
that were never meant for holding,
but somehow
still learned how to love.