I have ragged nails 

from thoughtful, nibbling teeth

calouses

from where the pen sits

an indentation

in my index finger

from the pressure of plastic against skin

glasses, and squinted eyes

frustration curling my brows

from perfecting how

the lone line slithers across the screen

dry eyes from staring

at blue light

ears that forget to hear

anything other than the skritch-slide

of the textured nib

across the tablet balanced on my knees

I have a soreness between my forefinger and my thumb

that never goes away

reminding me of bright colors in

dark nights lit only

by laptop-light

I have folders and files and hard-drives and sketch-books and I have

reams of paper and stacks of canvasses and

drawers and boxes

I have a life 

full of art

that has flowed from smooth calouses and broken nails

streaked with polish

that has poured from a crooked smile

bunched in concentration

that has been watched by flickering eyes

one of which closes

further than the other

These things that come from me

are flawless

embodiments of perfection

though the images themselves

require improvement

without end

they reflect the person who creates them

and a time when she

does not worry

about the asymmetry

of the hands that hold the pen