Toenails

I hurt. Not like angry or sad. I mean, my eyes feel like crying my lungs feel like screaming, but I don't. It's more like. . . like my toenails are on strike. Trouncing around with their picket signs, rebelling against my feet. It;s not like I really need them, but more that they are that little part of me that I have put so much care into and now they're broken. Like shifting gears without a clutch they're grinding my feet so that I don't want to move or eat. Not that I'm angry or sad. Just hurt. Even though I barely pay attention to them aside from the occasional trim their rebellion is like a hole bored into my chest. But I don't think it's because they're toenails that I hurt. I think it's because that little part of myself is rejecting me. Not so much because they're toenails, but because they are. . . or were, mine.