all in my hands

when i am graceful i take you out and look at you in the light of the vanity, with that soft yellow forty-summer-late-watt light. in that light you are rosy, but sort of dead. but i can polish you anyway. people have thought that manicure causes cancer. manicures don’t. the hands are creatures with desires you can’t funnel easily. remember how i used to wear gloves. remember that i was once a kid. i always keep dead skin over living. to frighten it.

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