My hand. A complex landscape of flesh and blood.
The ragged nails, victims of anxiety and boredom.
The creased palm, like a map, covered in lines that could be roads or rivers or valleys. The finger that can do so much. Play music, write poetry, calculate numbers.
The hand. My hand. All mine.
So delicate and so strong. Tiny bones cast shadows across my freckled skin.
The darks and lights mix together, forming indescribable beauty and unbearable mediocrity.
My hand, bearing the scars of careless pens, the burns and scratches of careless people. All made from a blueprint of DNA.