My fingernails strip.

They untie cuticles,
and drop polished bubblegum,
to the floor.
Once a sexy square,
they let down their mane of gnawed edges,
and tango,
through my hair.

I giggle as they dance,
like I smile when they sing.
Lyrics in forte
beg to be felt-tipped.
So I succumb;
close my eyes to the uncommon tune,
and write.

Frantic nights of ink are followed
by graylocker lined mornings.
The locker next to mine
clicks open- common-
to the rhythm of filed fingernails.
Low necklined nails that wouldn't dare
to wear the naked shade
of naturelle.
They snap to each dial,
clothed and common.

And in the hallways,
pristine nails on soft, swinging hands
are hostage.
Prisoners of protection.
Intertwined with no independence.
Held by his,
on a leash of love.

I console my calloused creators,
with lyrics so piano,
that only they can hear.
They're content with the
gnawmarks and the
nakedness, if it ensures freedom
is not harnessed.

Because,
they whisper back,
tangoing with tresses
and serenading felt-tips
is sexier
than any shape or polish,
or sense of security,



ever was.