What Consistency Marks

I felt it while rubbing my hands—

a rough spot on my index, where it stands,

the pressure point where pen meets skin,

where I begin

to write the same words every day.

I've never had a callus this way.

Two months of the same routine,

the same pressure, same scene,

the same spot wearing hard

until my skin could guard

itself with a small hardened place.

My body's changing at its pace,

building something in response

to repetition, to my stance

of showing up, day after day,

to the same person, same way,

writing until I'm hardened,

until I've emboldened

myself in small ways.

The callus catches on things—

proof of how my body clings

to what it's asked to do,

proof of following through,

proof I'm capable of sustain.

I wrote about it, tried to explain:

my finger is wearing,

my skin is preparing

for something.

They wrote back:

that's what it means to keep showing.

And I held onto that,

held onto the fact

that something as small

as a callus

could mean

I'm changing,

that I'm capable

of more

than I thought.