My nails are crusted.
I am scratching at them. Itching.
They\'re red, and I don\'t know:
paint, or blood?
I lick my fingers, spit on my palm.
I swirl and mix the sticky saliva.
It tickles my palm.
I scratch, trying to get it off,
until I hit the nerve underneath.
Then actual blood—much deeper in color—
floods my cuticle.
I press it with my thumb
and rotate, washing the paint away.
I bite my tongue.
I breathe.