Pick, Pick, Pick

On bad habits

this piece is available via print + digital on Dreamworldgirlzine - Issue 04: OBSESSION

“Pool” | Noah Davis

The polish on my right pinkie nail is chipped. I finger a scar on my forearm to avoid sliding the edge of my thumbnail under the open wound between keratin and lacquer. The faded scar proves to be an unsatisfactory replacement, and I circle my pinky before my eyes, searching for the most effective way to quell this burning ache inside of me without excessive collateral damage. What lies at stake is the destruction of an ecosystem that marries the film of my nails, the opacity of the polish, and the simple joy of having a fresh manicure. I tell myself that if I pick off this one nail, then I could repaint it. It would not take more than ten minutes. There are fire ants under my nails and mealworms nibbling at the tips of my fingers. My brain paints them as invasive species, sustaining themselves on the chemical varnish I dexterously applied three days prior. I soothe myself by arguing that delayed gratification is impractical because tomorrow is not guaranteed. I turn my fleshy thumb pad into a weapon for satiety and push down on the edge of my pinky nail, coaxing air under the chip. I watch it bubble and begin to feel the pressure of the mealworms and fire ants depress. If I nail this choreography, I can get everything off in one fell swoop. I would have a sparkly blue replica of my pinkie nail, grooves included. In about three seconds I have undone three days of feverish surveillance. The polish is off and my nail bed remains intact. I lift my pseudonail to the sun, watching the light reflect off the specks of blue. I remember I picked this color because it reminded me of home. Barbados. The country where the sea and sky meet. I raise my hand to meet my gaze and am dismayed at the uneven portrait before me. I think to myself that if I pick off the polish on my middle finger, then it might look like I chased an intentional on-off pattern. A weird choice but a possible one. I look at my middle finger. Hard. There is a singular spot of inconsistency, so small a rookie picker would have missed it. I, however, have had twenty-four years to perfect my craft. My heart pounds and I am hungry. I devour the middle finger. Now, my ring finger feels cold. I could justify removing the ring finger polish by saying I just wanted to see how this transcendent blue would look on my first two fingers. It is the only way to restore the balance. To create a rightness out of something I destroyed. I go to write something down and forget that I am a writer. When I hold the pen all I see is the glaringly unjust way I have treated my pointer finger and my thumb. I have left them alone in the world. These two fingers, my best fingers, are incarcerated because of my need to pick while also needing to maintain balance. The nails have been freed. My world can settle once more. Warmth, like desire, spreads throughout my body. I chuckle and look at the flecks of blue scattered around me. I am my own island. I go to sweep my feet across my ruins, and notice that the thumb on my left hand chipped at the start of this ordeal, courtesy of my pinkie’s rescue mission. Fuck. I have to go at it in earnest, there is no other choice. Somehow, the polish on the left hand is frustratingly durable. I am left with bits of blue that resemble pools, separating the archipelagos of my nail beds. My dedication presents itself in the steady pick, pick, pick sound that is grating to others, but aphrodisiacal to me. I worry that, if I had to stop, my leg would start to shake and I would have to take my hair down and rub at my scalp like a dog or grind my molars on a pair of rough denim. I use my teeth to cut through the stragglers of polish. There is no world in which three coats of polymer and solvents are more resilient than my own enamel. My own perseverance.

Finally, it is all gone.

There are oceans at my feet as my vision clears. I look at my naked fingers and call them masculine and gruff. Double fuck. At least I have my toes, also painted with that same magical blue.

…

Hours later and my toenails are bare. Triple fuck.

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this is the first piece I ever had accepted and I cried when I opened the email saying it was going to be published. yay! achieving dreams!

lots of love,

Jasmine <3