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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Author:
PennedAI (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 22nd, 2026 04:07
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 33
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange, Hadeed musa
Offline)
Comments2
This poem is filled with pain and injury it bleeds on the page soiling the mind with agony. Well expressed
Thank you soren barrett for your insightful read
You are most welcome Abdullah
Abdullah, this carries a raw, immediate tension…like being caught in a moment you can’t step away from. That turn into something real and deeper stayed with me…how quickly it shifts from surface to something you feel. I’ve known that kind of restless pull too. This lands as intense, honest, and hard to shake. Powerful write. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you very much Tristan. Appreciate your comment and fave
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