Nails
I can't remember having long nails. They've never reached the tips of my fingers. They're very sensitive, on some days more than others. The skin around them is usually red and raw. I think it was high school when the missing skin started spreading. The sides, tips, and pads of my fingers suffering an assault of teeth, metal, and lead. In college, the underside of my smallest knuckles began receiving the same treatment. My right thumb now carries a scar I haven't let fully heal, a wound spanning almost two-thirds of its circumference. All this happens during class. Small piles of skin form on the desk, an unnoticed bead of blood making a red streak on the white page. Why? I don't know. But no one sees.
I don't have beautiful hands. I envy the girls with pretty nails, pretty hands. I feel shame when I see them and attempt to keep my fingers hidden. It's something I can't help, can't control. And yet, it provides a twisted sort of comfort. Keeping my anxiety at bay, my hands fidget of their own accord. I only notice the pain later, when my fingers can't bend or touch. Sometimes, they throb as if they have their own heart. How many times have I driven with eight, nine, not ten, on the wheel? Soap, vinegar, shampoo...my fingers burn, but there's no choice.
But I have learned that not all painful wounds bleed. And some that bleed, don't hurt. Some take much longer to heal. Some, with interference, never heal at all. They can keep you from doing simple, everyday things. They can bring pain to what would have never hurt otherwise. They are like the wounds brought by time and experience. The only difference is you can see.
Disclaimer:
The intention of this blog is not to offend anyone.
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