(Day 11): Thoughts when the boy next to me has better nails

i cannot pull my fingers from my mouth.
they taste like oranges, wool thread, rust.

his are rounded like the print of wetness
ocean makes on sand, painted metal blue.

i cannot criticize how his boy hands handle
the can of cold coffee. i imagine his cuticles

taste of saltlick. like the cow in midwestern summer
I am tethered by my tongue.