Trimming nails

Two metal claws trimmed my nails,
one by one, until there was
nothing in excess.

On the other end of the machine
there was mummy, maneuvering
it gently after every second bath.

When I grew wiser and bigger, mom
told me to “Cut them whenever
they grow too much”

But by then, I heard the dark beings
lurking behind every shadow,
making the floor creek under my bed.

I could also hear my nails grow,
feel them moving further from the roots,
see them menacingly point out every minute.

Thus, I forsook the iron tool
employed by my mom and I replaced
them with milk teeth of prime sharpness:

Two ebony claws trimmed my nails
one by one, until there was
nothing to trim anymore.

On the other end of the machine
there was my mouth, biting
sharply, until the juice of my flesh
flowed freely from my fingers.

Now that I am wiser and older, mother,
I ignore the sound, feeling and sight
of my fingernails growing to much.

I let them grow long and sharp
and use them to fend off dark beings
lurking in every shady corner of my life.