Past Polish

Lately,
my fingernail polish
has faded
from scarlet red
to the crusted wine
of blood.

Smoothly,
my lemon scented alcohol
flows
from the bottle
onto a saturated puff
of cotton.

Gingerly,
my raw, stinging nail-beds
are displaced
from darkness
into the oxygen-rich air
of life.

Carefully,
my sunshine cloak
pours
from a tiny brush
over the deep scars
of past polish.

(August 8, 1998, 2:26 P.M.)

By Sandy S.