Constant Manicure 

My hands aren’t good
for fine work. I have
things to cut. I have more
things than I can manage
to care for. There is a pile
of electronics that my cat
has urinated on, a stack
of books written by men
on the floor; none of them
interesting. A manicure is an act
of self-care. Cut the cuticles,
buff the nails. Admire
how something so rough
can be made pretty. Watch
it go rough again. Repeat.
I am in need of a manicure.
I need to make an excision.
Several, in fact. Every night
for a year I avoided
my house. Every night
for a year I slept one,
two hours at most. If
I dreamed, I dreamed
about sleeping more.
Every night for a year
I dreamed of a pussy
that self-lubricated like a throat,
a pussy that was mine
the same way my throat
declares itself mine.

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Colette Arrand currently lives in Athens, Georgia. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Toast, Powder Keg, and Meanwhile, Elsewhere, Speculative Fiction From Transgender Writers. She is the founding editor of The Wanderer and is the publisher of the zine You Have to Deal with Me Breathing.