What the Fluorescent Shows
by porchstatic
· 26/12/2025
Published 26/12/2025 21:29
I looked down at my hands
resting on the vinyl seat
and forgot they belonged to me.
The cuticles are worse in this light.
Fluorescent. The kind that makes
everything look wrong. Or true.
I can't tell the difference anymore.
A small piece of skin
caught under my thumbnail.
I've been picking at it
without noticing. My hands
have their own habits.
Their own slow destruction.
The woman next to me
has perfect nails. Pink polish.
The kind that requires maintenance.
Her hands are folded in her lap
like she's protecting something.
Or protecting other people
from having to look at them.
My hands don't fold.
They sit open. Exposed.
The torn skin at the base
of each nail tells a story
about waiting. About anxiety.
About fingers that don't know
what to do with themselves
when they're not working.
I catch my reflection in the glass door.
My hands look worse there.
Bigger. More obviously damaged.
The cuticles seem to have pulled back
further. Like they're retreating
from something. Like they know
what's coming and they're trying
to get away.
The DMV lady calls my number.
I stand up and my hands follow.
Still attached. Still bleeding slightly
where I've worked the skin too far back.
Still confessing.