I meditated on death on the journey home

they told me it would help

it did indeed make me chuckle

as I blazed through traffic

could I go right now?

yes

but

would I be just as ok with a slow cancerous death?

I came home and popped the cap off a far too strong stout

and sat down in front of the writing machine

put on some sad music

dove into the symbols

I really should write I told myself

I’m not here to send a bloody message

this is no way to

send

a

message

the keys pissed me off

I misstruck them frequently in inebriation

then I glanced down at the desk

and I saw a fingernail

was it mine? I wondered

last week

putting on my socks

I noticed  how white one of my toe nails looked

so I picked at it

and then it fell apart.

I pulled it out

with little pain

it was soft and mushy, a malformed nail

maybe I have a horrible disease I thought.

how is my tolerance for pain?

but this nail was not one of mine

it was yours

you shed it

you are usually pretty good about clipping your nails in a sanitary manner

unlike me

it felt peculiar to hold a piece of you in this way

I rubbed it between my fingers

in between typing

and it broke apart

brittle

write a poem about me

you asked not so long ago

I don’t do that anymore

can’t

either I’m fixed or know too much

to write anymore

I put the same song on repeat

like the old days

to hold onto the distraction

milk it

milking the fucking symbols

wallowing in the disconnect

it is so crude and undignified

symbolic compensation

instead of looking for metaphor in your discarded fingernail

I should take you to the bedroom

and take every part of you between my fingers

even if everything is not OK

even if we are confronting the only truth