Jun 05
aesythe's picture



I'm find myself scraping off the dust-pink shellac warping my fingernails. A half-life has come to pass; I'm not sure whose. 

By the end of last week I'd sanded straight through a three-pack of emery boards from an old December stocking and am now left with the dull edge of dollar store clippers. The ruddy scabs on my finger-creases still come from a nervous eczema itch when I choose to look closer. I do not.

Instead I let the chips fall where they may. Without sight I sense my DNA settle into the flannel of my bedsheets. Keratin and rose polish snowflakes - a melancholy glitter. There is no sparkle to catch the lamplight. I realize now that I do not know the backs of my hands any better than I know the calluses on the bottom of my own feet. 

At least on my toes, I remind myself, I can still picture the grass stains of summer. The nail beds there bleed too, but not as much.

I am violent, but I am vindicated.