day 14

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.