Fingers in Ruin

Beneath the light, my hands tell a story,

crossed with ragged edges, a careless crime.

A quiet remark lingered, cut deeper than words,

regrets etched in skin, rough as gravel,

cuticles pulled tight, a battleground of nerves,

each hangnail a marker of sleepless nights.

I bite at the edge, a nervous habit,

the taste of salt mingles with memories,

all the promises I’ve made to take care,

yet here I stand, looking at the fray,

a self-imposed prison, nails worn down,

as I cradle my secrets, raw and exposed.