In the car the other day, my mother commented
on my nails, said they were long. I keep them short
and bit off at the ends. Sometimes bleeding.
Recently though, long has been the theme. I like
how they sound as I tap on the keyboard or drum
on the counter, waiting.
Waiting for that other shoe to drop, as every romantic
comedy says. Waiting for my best friend--or the girl
I hate the most--to be picked over me.
Waiting for that moment when he says,
you're such a good friend.
Friends, I used to paint my nails to coordinate
my outfits. Black, blue, and most recently, gold.
Picking at the nail polish kept me occupied from the nail
itself. As though, if I don't look up, I don't see the happy
and they don't see my insecure.
Insecure that I forgot to paint them this weekend. And today,
in the shower, I peeled off a nice, one-inch-long pinky nail.
Half of me felt satisfied. I sabotaged my nails
like I sabotaged him--acting like I didn't care or cared too much,
whatever that is exactly.
I sabotage so it doesn't hurt when I get picked last.
Monday, October 30, 2017
Monday, October 16, 2017
day 13
I sliced my thumb open, right under the knuckle, with a pocket knife on Friday.
My mother called as it happened, and when I said, oh that's a lot of blood,
you could tell she thought it was on purpose.
I would probably answer the phone during my own suicide.
In the shower, I picked at the scab after it softened. I had to pull a little. It hurt.
The pain of my thumb silences the echoes through our three bedroom apartment at three thirty
in the morning, as one roommate thinks she's being quiet when her boyfriend flips her over on the bed and she laughs, while the other opens our front door, turning off the alarm, just arriving home.
I continue to pick at the scab, now fresh and bleeding. I'm laughing, bent at the knees and holding my hand slightly above my head for elevation. There's enough pressure in my life.
The subtle once over by thin women outside the store, gathered around their phones
and long named coffee drinks. The blunt grandmother who tells me not to let food decide my mood.
The paranoia from behind my back giggles or too long glances.
That pocket knife went back in my desk, with my binder clips and multicolored highlighters
and five different pens that all write black ink. My blood seems darker than I imagined.
Do we ever really take notice of the exact hue until it drips down arms and onto the carpet
and starts to disturb other people? It's always about the other people.
My mother called again, shortly before she walked into work, shortly after bandage number two
and asked if I had talked to a boy recently--a boy I last heard from two years ago. A boy, who
if I spoke to again, I would pick not a scab, but scarred skin. And if I have to answer another well-meaning question about why I'm still single, or are boys blind, or what about babies, I'll laugh
and shrug, sure. But warn you, there's a lead bubble raging in my throat, full of shame, self-hate,
and scabs picked off in distraction.
In the shower--hot water and soap streaking down my back, mixing with blood droplets on the floor--as I tore open my left thumb, I resolve to go to bed hungry. Waking up empty means my body worked harder over night, that and the inside sting out-screams the outside sting and distracts one more day.
My mother called as it happened, and when I said, oh that's a lot of blood,
you could tell she thought it was on purpose.
I would probably answer the phone during my own suicide.
In the shower, I picked at the scab after it softened. I had to pull a little. It hurt.
The pain of my thumb silences the echoes through our three bedroom apartment at three thirty
in the morning, as one roommate thinks she's being quiet when her boyfriend flips her over on the bed and she laughs, while the other opens our front door, turning off the alarm, just arriving home.
I continue to pick at the scab, now fresh and bleeding. I'm laughing, bent at the knees and holding my hand slightly above my head for elevation. There's enough pressure in my life.
The subtle once over by thin women outside the store, gathered around their phones
and long named coffee drinks. The blunt grandmother who tells me not to let food decide my mood.
The paranoia from behind my back giggles or too long glances.
That pocket knife went back in my desk, with my binder clips and multicolored highlighters
and five different pens that all write black ink. My blood seems darker than I imagined.
Do we ever really take notice of the exact hue until it drips down arms and onto the carpet
and starts to disturb other people? It's always about the other people.
My mother called again, shortly before she walked into work, shortly after bandage number two
and asked if I had talked to a boy recently--a boy I last heard from two years ago. A boy, who
if I spoke to again, I would pick not a scab, but scarred skin. And if I have to answer another well-meaning question about why I'm still single, or are boys blind, or what about babies, I'll laugh
and shrug, sure. But warn you, there's a lead bubble raging in my throat, full of shame, self-hate,
and scabs picked off in distraction.
In the shower--hot water and soap streaking down my back, mixing with blood droplets on the floor--as I tore open my left thumb, I resolve to go to bed hungry. Waking up empty means my body worked harder over night, that and the inside sting out-screams the outside sting and distracts one more day.
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