i feel like
a torn cuticle
both as
the last hanging
strip of flesh
and the
sullen ache
of an open wound
a miserable
yet shallow
sort of
heavy aching
in tired repose

persnickety
in this funk
of sleepy
indignation
i need coffee
even though
it is slapping
a band aid
on missing limb

a torn cuticle
following the
curve of the nail
welled up
with deep crimson
nearly black
on this
overcast
afternoon
an astringent cold
chilling the tip
of my nose
as i countdown
the seconds
until i
exist once again