Little me, little you

There's not much finer than the lines
inside the lines, inside the lines
Of the crinkles in our wrists and the wrinkles in our thighs
Be it a dimple with a smile
Or a follicle of buried hair
You cannot get much tinier
I swear
Than the cells that make up all of us
And every bit in all of us
And although those with more surface area
May have a few extra
Still no different than anyone else
You, I and them are made of microscopic matter

See this is why it shouldn't matter!
If someone calls you big or small
The world is tiny after all