Compulsive Taste

Teeth bearing, instinct snaring,
My fingers the victims of habit.
I have made myself a martyr,
Filleted of my flesh, Drained of my blood.
Subjected to such fate since childhood’s birth,
An organic nail shearer am I.
Might as well devour mine own hand,
Than meekly nibbling the rest of my days.
No cure! No cure, to banish this beast,
This atrocious monster in me.

This is a poem for those who have a tendency to bite their nails. Created in 2006.
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