If you want to know if I’m okay,
notice my nails. It’s unlikely you care,
but that night in the park my nails were beautiful,
and grown, and a seductive shade of pink. My pride and joy,
a literal representation of the growth that can happen when I’m
permitted to breath.
Now, oh god, now they are bitten, and crooked, and cracked, and
bleeding. The nails of a girl who spends the night sick with the fear that love won’t find
her. The nails of a girl who lives without you.