My hands are old.

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My hands are old. They’re not 25 like me. The skin is thick from too many scars. The veins are swollen from repeated IV insertions. They have dark spots from where jellies and other unidentified ocean creatures stung me. The lead from the mechanical pencil that my old classmate jabbed me with has turned into a mole. They have numerous sun spots. They’re darker than the rest of me. My fingers have sustained numerous cuts from cooking struggles. My hands are old and wrinkled, abused too.

But they’re mine.

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