The wrist, the lines and the wrinkles.
The fat and the fine hairs that coats the skin to that of a monkey's hand.
The unhealthy yellow nails that is in denial and still shine pink, and the knuckles that must have severe calcium deficiency.
The tips that are starting to get coarse and the skin that peels the moment it encounters fiction.
Trembling but unapologhetic, my identity and my labour.