You asked me to paint my nails red
and so, of course, I did
even though I hated the way
they stalked the eye.
My hand was suddenly not my own.
It was five cherry bombs
waiting to go off.
My arm was the shadow
of a red light district.

I shouldn't have gone but it was too late.
Fire ants were marching,
the sun was red and multiple,
the blue was red, the green, everything.

I wanted to cut my fingers off, escape,
but that would only let the color run
to the counter, the floor,
multiply like cockroaches and hide in the dark.
I couldn't get them all anyway.
What would I do when one hand was only a stub?
I needed them. How could I sever them from you?