Finger painting

We used to paint together,
reds and blues and greens and pinks,
always pink.

We had blobs for bodies and stick-men arms,
holding hands. And the tree
always a tree.

I had all but forgotten our childhood art.
But now with your blood on my hands,
leaving trails of red across your skin
we are back. The great cubists of the nursery.
Spelling out our lives on blank canvas.

We used to paint together,
who'd have known we'd come to this?
Spelling out a murder.