Bitten down to stubs,
Bloodied and torn at the edges,
The once-perfect layer of dark, dark blue
These nails, nothing more than o n c e – p e r f e c t.
But at least my fingers are a nice long, kind of
My palms clean cut squares, kind of
A warm, light brown, kind of
Their chunkiness complements my chunky watch, kind of
Don’t you think so, at least kind of?
These are my hands.
In all the chunkiness and disproportion and dried blood and failing skin,
These are my hands!
And I will try to love them as much as I try with the rest of me.