Extremity
Look at my hands.
Pristine at first glance but look a little longer.
The pointer and middle on the right hand.
The yellow hue comes from an addictive personality.
Pan down to see a child in that line of white.
She woke up crying because her hands were bloody.
The wrinkles that stretch and close as they drape over my knuckles.
My dad would say my blood was made of sugar,
his evidence was the white dots that litter my skin.
I’ve been asked why my nails are so long.
A long nail elongates the fingers.
If you are visualizing the nails of Rita Hayworth or the likes,
think more along the lines of Corpse’s Bride with skin.
On the left, the gray polish is always chipped.
The most active of the fingers.
Where one would usually have wrinkles between the joints,
on the middle one the skin is perfectly smooth,
the cause being sexual tension and a cigarette.
On the side of the same finger, hugging the nail,
a wound from a seventeen year old who shouldn’t be trusted with sharp things.
The protruding, mechanical nature of the bones that ebb and flow
as they breathe with broken movement.
The breath is felt in all but one finger
embedded with glass from bad decisions during communal living.
It left with with a little bit less feeling and a little bit more character.
The most beautiful thing about me is the one most harmed.
Copyright © Clare Maceda | Year Posted 2017
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