bare

I pick at the beds of my fingernails and I think of you,

of all the times you smacked my hand,

silently telling me to stop

and later when I didn’t,

you, anything but silently,

told me you were simply trying to make me better.

as if my worth was defined by the state of my fingernails

and as if my feminine identity was lost

because they remained bare

and sometimes a little bloody.

I pick incessantly at the memory of you;

you’re a scab, a hangnail,

begging to be ripped off but never going away fully.

your words will stay with me longer than a fresh manicure ever would.

every time i tear off skin, I relish in the pain

because it feels like a victory

even if I’m the one bleeding at the end.