Nails are too long,

can’t remember to cut them,

they are colored with everything I hold

like the skin of orange peel—

a citrus flesh that never bleeds,

Coffee grind soil from the night

I tried to uproot something

I could not see,

Dust of a keyboard that never

taps back,

Crumbs from

empty cereal bags

as I search for whole pieces,

only fragments are left

and I never know how to

eat them.

My nails extend past their borders,

yellow hued and black dirt

around pink,

I impatiently remove

what is underneath.

When I finally remember to cut them,

I worry these hands will look unfamiliar, and

that everything I hold

will disappear the moment

I let go.

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