polly (missaline) wrote,

hand, the;

nails tiny as ever -
like shells, he said, once,
as if it was obvious -
and jagged, and cut.
flecked. blue chalk
pretends to be a bruise;
red pen cameos amongst real scars.
i got excited last night
and scribbled the name of a film:
foreign shapes in black,
amongst the lines and pinks
and painful lookings.
suddenly, tracing the flakes
and bits falling off,
and colours all unhealthy,
i know how it feels to be old.
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