I noticed your calloused fingers tainted with years of dirt and filth.
It’s often I catch myself staring at your fingers. The way they move, crack, bend. Picking things up with ease.
When I want to forget you, I squint my eyes, blur my vision, imagine a sponge washing away every one of your fingers.
First, I get rid of your index. Your skin dissolves off your bones. I hear the searing of flesh, then the piercing crack of your knuckles.
I proceed with your middle finger. Then your ring finger. Then your pinky and finally your thumb.
Yesterday, I saw a woman and a man. When I looked at the woman, I saw my features. My distinct nose and curled snarl. She had no ears. I looked at the man and he had no fingers.
The day finally came when I washed away your face. Your nose, then your lips, and finally your sunken brown eyes. When I washed away your ears, I told you all the words I felt ashamed to even think. A final soak of my sponge before I erased your neck.
Maybe one day I’ll see you again. I’ve thought of you so often that I’ve forgotten what you look like. Every day I bite down my nails to the stump, hoping you’ll be down at the end. My nails are gone and soon my fingers will be too.
Sarah Cunningham lives in Montreal. When she isn’t being eaten alive by schoolwork, she’ll either be shopping, jumping between books to buy, or trying to figure out a title for her next poem.