home

all my life, my nails were bit down to the beds. My grandma was the same way. She quit with a friend in high school. Maybe they traded for cigarettes. As she spoke to me, my hands were left with overgrown cuticles and bloody tips. I lived embarrassed of them more days than not.

I have long nails now. If they split or bend or discolor, I’m protective of them. When the button to open the dock door needs pressing, i have to use my right thumb because it’s short enough after being severed a week ago. Shovels filling with snow, my head scratches improved threefold. They catch on this keyboard and annoy me when I type. Between my teeth, they run constantly. All ten dig into the back of my neck from i’m anxious. Little arcs stain fresh pink into his shoulders, neck, and arms when we fuck. They tug at my finger, poke my palm in a fist, and harbor accretion. Not sure if it’s proof i can quit or that i’m capable of growing something. Regardless, I might give them a trim soon.