My Nails - A Short Story

My nails reveal secrets about me that my face- encapsulated in a cakey, liquid veneer of concealer and mauve hues- could never betray. 

My nails host dirty proclivities which writhe and squirm beneath their shielding exteriors, the nauseating habits which accumulate below the surface are coming to light.

My nails are dainty and sharp with pin-point precision, they scratch maliciously at the soft expanse of warm flesh which wraps around my sub-anatomy and calcified frame. Keenly, they decorate the canvas of my skin with rose cordons as they part the pliant tissue with every ravaging slice.

My nails continue to carve me into ruby ribbons, every scar is embedded with my tarnishing sins, yes, my skin now bores my disparaging misdeeds in every shallow, vermillion valley which fervently segments it.

My nails now rub my face raw, layers of mascara, blush and concealer are distorted- disfiguring my once beautifully rendered features that masked the tainted (true) version of me who resides below it.

My nails have left me laid me bare to the world like an exposed live wire. I profoundly loathe this feeling with every deranged thump and beat of my heart. I realise that I need to fix this, I need to rectify myself before they realise. And so...

My nails are trimmed by me in feverish desperation, then they're swiftly coated in a thick, opaque layer of pearlescent, white paint. 

My nails have unveiled me once before, and I'd die before I let it happen again. Yes, never again, I swear to myself.