I'm finger-painting bloody streaks
in the floodlit morning sky,
broken fingernails clawing at the sun,
clawing at my eyes.

The kindergarten shapes are
childishly simple: bold lines, blunted angles;
fingerprint smudges smear the pictures
like bitter, morbid raspberry jam
forgotten at a midnight picnic in a
winter not everyone survived.

A bare bones mockery of art,
midmorning sunsets colored in crayon
without any attention to the lines;
the blue shows through in the cracks
and reveals the lie for what it is.

If I wash the blood under my fingernails
until the water runs clear and
the guilt runs down the drain in
teardrop trickles like sugar water
left out for hummingbirds that wont' come,
no one has to know about my
finger-painted midmorning sunsets.