Ghosted

It was a thumb and a pinky nail, torn and bloody, lying forlorn and forgotten on the stained concrete. They were painted French manicure style, with glittery black crescents instead of the traditional white. I traced their resting place backward to the twin smears of crimson squiggled on the dull gray door, and thought, “What pretty colors together.”

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Two fingernails lay on the floor,

Smear of blood on the bathroom door;

And I wondered, Did she fall?

And I wondered, Should I call?

In the end I did not act;

Left her story there, intact.

But I wonder, Is she dead?

And I wonder, Was she me instead?

3 thoughts on “Ghosted

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