polarberrys

holding my hands over the kettle the skin on my fingertips peels back, like dated wallpaper, like flowers blooming. they're burning from the inside out, nails turning to varnish, turning to steam, bones click-clacking their way out; spreading like wildfire. the whistling stops, and blink and my fingers are just fingers, ink stained, bitten nails. sunlight streams across the kitchen, my fingers warm and slightly damp, i trace patterns on steamed-up windows.