Nail Biter

Thursday 5^th

Nail Biter

Down to the quick,
‘cause you’re sick
to your stom’ick
so you rip into yourself.
Gnawing at the tip
of your skin like a tic,
an uncontrollable blip,
when the nerves
get too much
and your fingers
go to your lips.
You bite and draw blood
‘cause the hangnail won’t give.
Gnaw ‘round the edges
the jagged chips
and the plasters won’t stick
so the ends are raw, sore and split.

Then you leave it
a few days.

The fresh pink crawls over the craters
like new grass. Pruning the cuticle,
landscaping your fingertips,
redrawing your fingerprints.
The calcium half-moon rises
over creamy, pearl plains
glistening, as they’re bathed
in salty, lavender-scented lakes.

Ten new infants,
with plump, porous bodies,
sculpted little white scalps,
faces buffed to a shine,
wriggling in the light.
The little one’s head
enters your mouth
in another bout
of self-inflicted cannibal.
Spitting the shrapnel,
you only realise when your hear
the click
of manicure against tooth enamel.