callouses (poem)

the aching and burning
having lifted myself abreast the holds
softened skin sanded by purposeful texture
are these coarse pads a badge of honor
a sign of strength
that i pour my time into
beckoned by the puzzle
that celebrates the way i move
or are they the miniature curses
that i might never enjoy
a life of leisurely rot
as much as i do
continuing to move
where no force or block can impede me

scar my hands better.
i wish to make them marble
so i can hold more than my own weights.