Black Nail Polish: Part 2; Chipped


What a week!

Since we first met(yes, you).

Eight days ago.

This morning I am anxious and writing from the desk of my office, at work: a herculean feat, the anxiety-less will not understand; sandbags of weight, pulling at my dominant hand… still I type in an attempt to collect my thoughts. I take half of a Xanax, which was already broken in the small zip-lock bag.

Last night was a bad night.

I’m contemplating.

Should I break another? It is the last one in my stash and I am still five days away from my first therapy appointment.

I wore lipstick yesterday, the kind that doesn’t come off without merciless attempts. I spent the evening biting and gnawing at the skin, without remorse. Today, they are red and sore and soft.

I started chipping at the black nail polish last night while on the phone for an hour with a man. Today, I pile layer, upon layer to cover the chips, the tips: the drying polish creates new ridges which only the diligent eye will penetrate–and it is not his.

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