Cruel things we humans do

I didn't intend to write this, but it came to me and I couldn't reject it. The whole piece was written on demand, sort of, or - more out of necessity, actually. Doesn't matter for whom or on what basis - it simply needed to be put down in words. The weird lining system is due to Blogger's stupid, limited margins. If anyone's got any tips as to how I can fix that and widen the horizons, please tell me. For the time being, I just write.

"Handyman"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, with love and devotion.

my hands, and she was watching my hands,
wanted to ask me how they work, and how I work them,
disconnect from them, and still hold onto them,
the scars and wrinkled lines, tracing old and former deeds,
she said how can you stand it, and bear them,
but I couldn't take the separation either, I need to feel it,
the tugs, the tiny spasms that'll have me be aware,
and I may pat the ground, to know where is the dirt and soil,
the movements of the earth and instant warmth and
prickling thorns, that weren't even there, my fingertips detected,
and cruel was cruel, with softness overruled, I crept;
my hands, she held my hand, and whilst our fingers crossed, she said;
of all these vicious things I did; I never understood, quite,
how my conscience could let me, how my nerves and muscles could allow me
wanted to be rid of all the blood, that lingered on my skin,
and touch again, as though it were anew; unharden these, my hands
the bruises heal, the furrows wane, pains cease to prod
my hands, she said, stay on and serve their purpose soon again,
oh were they only used to find a way in crepuscule, or
held against a tender cheek; or signalling to others faith; or love to one,
most dangerous of undertakings I would tackle with the couple,
this, most lethal weapons that I keep, and solely mine to handle and control
they're the blemishes I can't destroy, as I lay my guns and knives aside;
I still do what is left, collect the pieces, with my hands