I don't like sitting in silence, 
when my head feels nothing but pain.
Wrecking my lips with my biting, 
I tear 'part my nails till bed.

But I love treating this habit
that is my own loving curse.
As when I have no more nails
my fingers can lie in a hearse.

No one will ask why they're there,
only look in as if it is art.
What i didn't know could be so symbolic,
I ate 'way because I was hurt.

My own little nails have a story,
one by one as they grow very small.
The taste never gets better or worse,
as they believe they'll outlive us all.

Not sure if my hips feel the pressure, 
from the weediness slant of my stand,
my shoulders know it every so often,
when my neck builds over my hands.

I dig through the dirt gathering beneath
beds of never-ending dread.
It rests in my veins, lies grey on my scalp,
a troubled man’s habit,
a havoc that swells.

wash away sins,
breathe in to let yourself feel.
My nails may remain missing,
but my hands still learn to heal.