Sometimes, i look at my hands as if my eyes are a camera lens im trying to focus. I study my knuckles and how they protrude and connect to each joint along their winding way. I stare at the smooth skin and lone freckles on my thumb and index fingers and wonder how much my hands will resemble those of my mother and her mother as i age. When will the blueness of my veins stand out against an ever-growing pallor? When will my hands harbor more lines and marks? I stare at my plastic ring i’ve worn for a decade and wonder how it’s become a part of me. I’ve always supposed that’s how habits form, they just start one day and you can’t shake it off, unremarkable until you try to change. When you do, a mark remains, eerily empty and subconsciously wrong like the line of white beneath my ring. my gaze turns to study the papercuts on my hands; they heal with time but had a venomous bite. Sometimes, i wonder if that’s where my demons live, simmering beneath the light scars that will continue to marre me starting from within. Maybe when a wound opens, that’s when their slim eyes can peek through and see me, just to remind themselves of who they’re tormenting before they hide again. Then again, they’re just my hands, normal like anyone else’s.