The bruised callus

The shovel’s edge dug into earth,

and when I flipped it, my palm caught

something sore beneath the skin—

a callus, raw, like a bruise beneath dirt.

Hours of cold work wrapped around that spot,

a stubborn, aching knot that no one sees,

the silent record of every scrape and strain,

a history pressed deep beneath rough skin.

I press my fingertip

against the swollen flesh,

feeling the stubborn weight of giving,

and the slow wear of everything I do

that no one thanks me for,

like this bruise beneath my callus,

quiet, unrelenting,

and mine alone.