22:2 Abused Fingers
I pick and pick and pick
whenever I feel nervous.
(Which is all the time.)
I imagine a situation,
real or fantastical,
and feel my nails claw at flesh
chipping away skin from my tips.
Often I’ll be bleeding without realising,
a little trickle running down my thumb,
setting into the crevices and painting
my tone brighter.
It is unsightly, unhygienic,
but I can’t stop.
A scrolling advert on Facebook
will ease my tortured skin
when I order and receive two anxiety rings.
The silver bands are thin and plain
cheap looking to judging glances.
On each ring is ten beads
taking up only half the band’s width,
but mobile around its circumference.
Now restless fingers reach towards
the small spheres, pushing and separating,
grouping and counting.
I have one on each hand,
moving them to different fingers. My skin no longer bleeds.
Scribbled Thoughts 