Just the familiar sting, the general high, of exposure...

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.