I look at my hands, and I stretch my fingertips out before me
Twist and turn my wrist to inspect them
See the slender digits flex and bend to my will
Run my thumb along the crescent moons of my nails in validation:
They are sharp now, sharp enough to be instruments as I drum them against a desk
Sharp enough to be weapons
Eczema, believe it or not, is torture
I look at my hands; see little constellations of bruises and cuts
I trace the braille across my wrist, unable to read something I’ve never been accustomed to, despite it being an almost constant companion
It comes and goes like a fair-weather friend and always arrives when it is never wanted
In summer, when temperatures climb up buildings and trees
I find myself not just allergic to pollen, but to myself
In winter, I peel off small bits of layers to reach for places that won’t mind the cold as much
Reaching and searching quick as chilled air finds a break in the defenses
You asked me what was wrong; that if I was sad I could do whatever I wanted, even towards you
I would never hurt you
My anger, my sadness, is directed towards myself
I want to feel the rush of hurling myself at walls
Want to feel the thud of skin against bone against hollow plaster and wooden frame
I want to feel nails run down fabric; soft, thin and fragile
Want to see them tear things apart, see feathers spill out or paint chip, all jagged and frantic
I want this and I don’t want this
I glide nails across skin, across rashes along my hand
I find myself stagnant as my joints itch for action