I tend to keep my hands busy so that I don't cut myself on idle fingernails.
I have come to learn that they are most destructive when left unattended.
Empty hands linger without purpose.
Irritable phalanges begin to jitter in the absence of something tangible.
Bored fingernails start to pick at preexisting lacerations.
Conveniently, they start at the cuticles
And move across scar tissue.
Peeling back each delicate strand of your epidermis like beautiful red yarn.
Very much like a sweater,
You get thinner and thinner as each strand is pulled.
Until you are undone.
The sharper they are,
The easier it is for nails to snag cotton,
Making them incapable of crocheting you back together.
So there you sit,
As a pile on the floor,
While the troubled fingernails are left to scrape holes in the ground around you.
Anxious to destroy something else.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Thoughts
PoetryA collection of mostly free verse poems and short stories. Sometimes it is nice to simply clear your head. *Trigger warnings: descriptions of disturbing themes such as: body horror, death, interactions with the uncanny, topics in biology, and suici...
