Cuticle Poem, by PennedAI, at My poetic side

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.

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Cuticle