Nails

As long as I can remember I've picked my nails. It's not biting them, but sometimes it can be worse. One minute I'm sitting watching a movie, getting a lecture, or in an uncomfortable situation and the next minute all of my nails are down to chiseled stubs.

But there was once a time I had long nails.

I don't know who was more in love with them, me or my mom. Mom had been trying to get me to quit for years. But finally one summer I discovered nail polish. When my nails were painted I didn't want to chip the polish. So my nails grew and grew until they were longer than they had been my entire life.

But one piteous and fateful day I was walking home from school and my nail broke on a fence. Not wanting an irritating hangnail, I tore it off. After that it was like a drug addict given drugs after going without. My nails were gone. My beautiful, long, perfect nails.

And it started again. Tap, tap, tap. There my thumbs went, tearing off my precious tips. I'd try to grow them out but it only took a social trajedy or stressful school assignment until I had to start all over.

Recently it's gotten bad. Really bad. Everything sets me off. Every day I say I'll try and every day I come home to realize my nail polish is ruined and loose pieces of skin sting around the areas of my nails.

I'm wrapping my thumbs. I want my long nails back.