Nervous Battles

Biting my cuticles, each tug feels like war,

red marks on my fingers, I’m lost to the chore.

A morning spent waiting, the phone stayed still,

blood dripped from the edges, a wound left to fill.

I fidget and ponder, in rhythms of fear,

each nip of the flesh is a voice I can hear.

A symphony played in the quietest place,

my nerves on parade, in this battle of grace.

I wash off the traces, the remnants of doubt,

not wanting to linger when hopes scream to shout.

But here in this chaos, I grasp for the light,

tucked between moments that soften the night.