It’s been years since my hands’ve been this soft,
makes the contrast between the skin ‘n the scars easier to read.
Don’t have much in the way of knuckle scarrin’,
angry as I get, ain’t ever been much of a fighter,
not sure where I get ’em,
but they coat the outside of my hands,
‘n remind me how much I like to work with ’em.
I ain’t ever been skilled with ’em, mind,
but a nice warm shovel ‘n a beatin’ sun–
–always felt like a little sweatin’ was good for the cleanin’ out of things.
I’ll never understand complainin’ about the heat,
not if you ain’t tryin’ to sleep.
I learned how to kiss,
workin’ my hands along her hips,
grindin’ her against me,
sloppy ‘n desperate,
but she stuck it out,
’til I found the rythm in it,
sweat drippin’ down our everything,
made her lips taste salty,
made our skin stick together like we weren’t gonna come apart.
I got hands that’d rather be covered in calluses,
‘n a body that’d rather be sore than comfortable.
I got scars ‘n stretch marks from god knows what.
I’d rather be rough ‘n worn than anything,
and I ain’t afraid of a little heat.
