The miles melt under my new tires reminiscent if the way chocolate icecream would shamelessly run down the sides of my tiny toddler hands. I look at my torn cuticles today and marvel at the idea of a previous me.
a time when me was still my mother's baby.
My fathers apple seed.
not yet my little brothers big sister and biggest critic.
My hands used to be sticky with mischief and Untouched by the coarsest callous one could ever acquire, a callous that clings to my finger today as a testament to every scribble that I've ever introduced to paper.
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