Dirt

You are the dirt under my nails

which I fear may become a constant stain.

I've washed my hands seven times

but you cling like stubborn roots in my soil

and in the past I have worried

about how I would look with such grubby hands

but I have come to accept your prescence

because you're a daily reminder of all my effort

and for as long as you have a hold on me

I can hold onto that.

Maybe people will see my dirty hands

and not judge me on how this may appear

but on how well my hands have been worn.

My skin is becoming coarse and thick

and what once pierced my tender palms

is now unnoticeable to my unflinching eyes.

Time will heal; and time's healing will also strengthen.