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.”
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?