White Fingernails

For the first time,

or maybe the second,

my nails are limestone white.

I drag them across the brick walls

and scratch them down wooden desks

until they run ragged,

until they chip and flake off paint.

One, the one right in the middle,

comes loose and peels,

peels until veins are visible

through skin raw and aching.

I admire them as voices scream,

ears leaking dark fluid,

and nibble at their edges

when the shadows close in.

I clip them in the shower and

watch the crescents fall,

swirl and circle the drain.

Some little moons stick to porcelain walls,

hanging from water droplets,

barely holding on.

Alone, I can run my thumb over the ridges,

pressing them into my skin,

digging deeper and watching each layer break,

breaking until red dots appear.

Dark imprints mark my wrist,

for a minute I watch them,

or maybe two minutes,

in the morning they're gone,

invisible to the naked eye but

I feel them for every second I'm awake.

By the end of the night

I'm brushing white polish back over the wounds.