poetry PRUNING by Peter J. Grieco I look down at my hands and don't recognize them. Ever since you started me clipping them, my nails seem a little strange to me. For all those years I'd always bitten them off. I clip them close now, so they look like yours but they grow fast, while yours don't. Are we so unsuitable? Is there nothing I can do to prune myself? To grow something else? To heal our rift? Or change your mind? Or should I forget you and go back to biting? Though there's one other thing I've noticed: we both pick our noses.
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