Love a little.

Look at your hand. At the lines that run crisscross over your palm. The meandering print on your fingers. The pores, the nails, the wrinkles. Your hand is a human hand and so is every other hand. They start out young and weak. An adorable curl of fingers. Remember when you used to laugh as a child? Entirely free, entirely happy? Your mom was being silly, and you giggled and shrieked in joy. Then you started to grow and your hands began to grow too. They learned to grasp and hold. To pick up tools and use them. You learned to speak and communicate. Perhaps it's nostalgia but you miss the days you used to laugh. You changed. Your mind changed, your hands changed, and to your horror, your body changed. Who were you now? Your hand was still able to write yet it wasn't the same hand. Your hand was able to hold yet it wasn't the same hand. And the world had changed as well. It was pessimistic and colder. No one was smiling as much as they used to. And there hands had changed to. They were fists. There hands were fists and they held knives and they held guns and they were stained with blood and stained with tears but they were the tears of the victims. The world had grown up. Yet it's not done growing. We can still learn. We can still cut ourselves, and when we cut ourselves, we all bleed the same. We can learn to build and repair, not destroy. Look at your hand. Its blood is the same as everyone else's. We can hurt but we can also forgive. We can forgive, and hold each other's hand.