Hands

Hands. I get it. It must be hella annoying to be you guys. I'm sorry. I know how hard it is to always have some form of cuts on your backs. And I'm sorry that your palms are usually scraped. And I know that the calluses on your fingers make you feel insecure. You are worn out after just 16 years.

But please. I'm begging you to think of how I lovingly moisturize you each morning, keeping you soft and smooth. And I just want you to know all your pain and harm is not in vain, for you help me create beautiful things as I sit and write for hours, as I shuffle through pages and suffer through paper cuts. And I want you to remember the many times you've saved me from falling each time I trip, by hitting the ground before my face does. Like the time I was riding my bike and stupidly decided to attempt riding "no hands". Had I realised how much I needed you to keep me on the bike I'd never have done it.

I'm sorry hands.