My pretty nails brittle on the backside.
The shellac is shiny,
And consumer-facing.
The glitter gradation
Disguises the delayed self-care.
The missed appointment
And week four gel
Deprived the beds of oxygen.
A ten-minute massage temps me
Adding to the bill and
Distracting my impulse to unlock my phone
Forgetting which app I desperately needed to open
My brittle nails breathe briefly
Before the paint dries.
For an hour and twenty minutes
I read the captions on HGTV.
One ear absorbs the city’s soap dish.
The latest serial daters
And hardest working women in their business
Take my place believe they’ll never be my age.
If they are, if they are still here
please shoot them, they say.
My pretty nails flaunt the
Color of the season
Renewed before they
Beg my return in another three weeks time.
I ink my 10 visits for 10% loyalty card
Fringing at the seams
Ever approaching number 9
My pretty nails brittle on the backside
Providing a home for dead skin cells
From my chronic itch.
They break skin
And oxidize the blood beneath the surface.
The shallow scratch and scabs
More visible than my color choice.
Photo by Kris Atomic on Unsplash
