I stare at these fingernails. It feels good to see the dirt beneath the skin and the blood. Until you get to this point you haven't done much. You've been waited on, your hands are soft. You speak of a one perfect world. Yet you can see well maintained cuticles and perfectly cut form.
These hands are sore, they bleed. They're nervous they've been bit, they've been broken. Imperfection comes from their palms, desire is held momentarily then let go for need.
Your hands caress plastic and hold dear it's value. You speak of perfect world. Yet your hands tell me a different story. They speak to me of suffer. They scream to me of tolerance.
I work my fingers to the bone in a crevasse of filth. We take the time to dig and pry. My fingernails are stained in blood. You speak with rosy palms of a perfect world and were the fools that listen.