I don't know where to put this one. But I'm thinking about tucking it in somewhere at the end of After the Storm (the collection I'm working on for NaPoWriMo) as an exerpt. Maybe I'll figure this out...
People who write
shouldn’t have
shaky hands.
Stableness for typing
and holding a pen.
A clear mind
for plotting storylines
and daydreaming
alternate realities
that are somehow
close to your own.
My hands are shaking.
My mind is hazy.
The cause is unknown.
Nothing has triggered it,
or maybe I’m blind.
All I know is that I have
to cut these fake nails off
immediately.
They keep me from biting them
and picking at the sides of my thumbs-
drawing blood and leaving raw,
exposed skin brushing with air.
But they have to go.
I know this.
I take the nail clippers
and press down.
Pop.
Crack.
Crack halfway down
through my actual nail.
That’s what I needed:
exposure.
Raw skin touching air.
My hands aren’t shaky anymore.
Just the familiar sting,
the general high,
of exposure.
My chest is tight though.
And I can’t breathe.
Panicking,
what will people think
when they look down
at my hands.
Half covered with acrylic.
Poorly clipped.
Raw, exposed, bloody hands
holding out with their last bits of intactness,
waiting on someone to notice
that something isn’t right.
To take them
and know that
I do this unconsciously.
That I want to stop,
but don’t know how,
don’t know if I can.
Picking,
scratching,
needing to do this
or face the reality
of seizure like spasms
overwhelming the part of me
that needs to function the most.
