Just HandsSometimes when I write, I pause to study my hands. It isn't the long pianist's fingers I see first. It's not the man cut, chewed up nails. Or the fact that the middle finger on my right hand sometimes gets a ghosting pain that I have never understood.(Arthritis plagues my family. I'd rather not understand the pain. Cowardice is a bitter pill to swallow.)It's the stains of ink that I notice. Black, running into bruised bluish purple on the intersections. Those are the older marks. The newer ones are black that looks un natural wherever it lands. It makes me think of the eighteenth century, of Austen when she wrote. Or maybe, of darker time
About my Little ToeI almost broke my toe yesterday morning.It's so terribly silly and I really don't want to take too much of your time. I do hope I'm not being a bother. I only want to talk to someone right now.It's just that I was running for my shoes. I was late for school, and I'm never late. Really, ask anyone I have a perfect record for any sophomore at my school. But whilst I was running, I didn't notice the chair my mother had placed outside my bedroom door. She needs it, you see, she likes to sit there and work on her laptop. It was my fault entirely. I should be more careful. Anyway, it was only my little toe, not some major artery. And
Looking forward to seeing more art from you at #devPREMIUM!
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