I’ve decided to stop using paper towels to dry my hands. They, and by they I mean my hands, have started to crack, not unlike other parts of my being. Blistered and that pinkish color that my grandma thinks is good for lipstick. The skin starts to peel, but I am not a snake. I can’t shed it all at once. I have to wait; I have to watch, it slowly flake off and reveal the kisses she left on my palms