Hands.

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Hands.
Colosseum, Jericho Brown (2017)
How callused my heart and mind, like the skin on an overworked hand. I will no longer give myself out so easily, like candy at a parade. Somebody will have to work to show me they care; I will now know the signs of a liar. From here on out, I will be strong; ready, set, go.
Writing fic has lead me to looking up texture of hands from wearing gloves a lot so I can describe mandos hand correctly
I’m getting too good at moving on. My heart is so callused it barely beats. I’m beginning to hate who I’ve become and I fear there’s no stopping the calcification of my soul.