Neatness
Dec 13 2009


It’s a nervous tic, I suppose
picking away at things.
A loose corner, a thread.
A broken nail
you worry at
with your teeth, your hand
your teeth again.
How you unerringly find the crack
pick away at it, distractedly
until you feel it give,
gone too far to fix.

You prefer an even surface,
smoothing over things,
endings trimmed and clipped.
Neat
and uncontested.
Not so much neurotic, or obsessed
as convention
what’s expected
better left unsaid.

Trouble is
things smart small
get bigger
and you can’t go back.
So you’re embarrassed by your ugly hands —
nails chewed to the quick,
even the skin, nibbled at.

You pull at threads
and feel things unravel.
You pick at chips
until your vessel cracks.

Unsightly scabs
you dig at, pull-off, scratch,
and never give a chance
to heal.