Ice Blue Varnish

My bad habit nails aren’t painted like a human manicure clutching a fistful of butter mints, with gradients blushing under jealous conversations. They’re unexpected, not even wanted, just pesticide against anxious teeth, or like reflective antler paint above a nervous huff allegedly done on some brilliant ranch nights by clever wrists in novelty mittens (Not quite prey here, can’t relate.) smearing oncoming cars into a banner of light taking off before a skittish hoof can breach the frozen edge.