The Calluses of Good Deeds Done

Some days slink across your path like a black cat, like you’re a Starbucks coffee cup with your name spelled wrong. Days when nagging pessimism becomes your second skin. Your psyche, an open grave accumulating the bones of sordid news headlines. Other days, you feel more blessed than a wadded-up 20 found in a pair of jeans. Your every scar, a poem. Every kiss, another breadcrumb on the trail leading home. Days like these are a grab bag of light, dark. Bullet, beauty rose. Hands covered in gunshot residue and the calluses of good deeds done.

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