Dust off fingernails,
blowing cuticles clear.
Orange peel skin
when scabs have dried over-
where shall I swim now?
Hot tub blood boiling
then bruises disappear,
shelved away in the attic.  
Deadly dull
so I chomp,
bit, byte.
A byte is 8 bits
binary math, base 2
not 10.
Ones... twos... fours
and so on
****, am I bleeding?
Dried pool in the sun,
metal tongue lapping dust
hieroglyphics lost in translation.
Back, back, back
to routers.
Why don’t I paint my nails?
She asked me that today.
You don’t highlight the anxious massacre.