I love you a round circle.

The ridges in my fingernails from
the trauma of you leaving,
Deep crescents in every nail
as if someone had hit them all
with a hammer,
are finally growing out.
The ridges on the right hand are
deeper than the left,
and I keep telling myself that
when they are finally gone,
when I have clipped and filed them
out of existence,
then so will you go:
On the bathroom floor,
down the drain.