Orange Peelings

Sometimes,
I like to keep orange peels.
Preserve them.

Sometimes,
I cut them into 3 centimeter by 4 centimeter
rectangles.
Staple them on the wall.
Perfectly spaced apart to match the space between my fingers.
Perfectly.

Sometimes,
I scratch them,
the ones on my wall.
It feels so nice
to rub my nails against the
rough, delicate texture
of the orange peels.
Try it yourself.

Sometimes,
I look at my nails
and they are disgustingly
filled with orange particles,
yellow-orange,
smelly like an orange.
Smelly like an orange.

Sometimes,
my nails
get stuck on the peelings
and pull off.
Blood gushing out,
slowly,
satisfyingly,
off of my fingers.
My hands not only red
with strong streaks of blood,
so much so that barely any
contrasting overt peach skin remains;
but yellow-orange
on the tips too,
subtle,
subtle like the bone
barely visible
on all five of my fingers,
contrasting the dark blood pool
of my fingers.
Boney.
Boney like my
boney, toothy,
smile, also red,
red with blood.
Boney.

The orange peelings hurt me.