The Lark
Published in

The Lark

Nailbiter

A poem in desperate need of a manicure

My nails chipped in black
Flecks of half-painted panic
Slapdash finished of fevered shellac
Hands to mind as wide as the Atlantic

Beds made on this flesh
Torn and chewed in nervous repose
Gnawed at frustrations hanging fresh
I try to run from what they expose

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