Nails

Under these nails,
what I take,
when I scratch at the surface,
and they reflect that.

Where they chipped away at every layer,
we painted on,
polishing our skills in cosmotology,
looking so pretty,
underneath,
prevarnish.

Before anyone reaches quality control,
we were just as maleable as the next,
and this is what results,
the spring line,
page 5000 of the catalog,
it's not hard to see how we got here.

Under these nails,
my skin is cracked and bleeding,
but you'd never know it,
how carefully I keep them groomed,
picture perfect,
never capturing the every itch I soothed with these claws.

Digging into the armrest,
where the surface sits,
lifted to reveal the naked grain,
unfinished as it was meant to be.
art
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