A Clean Cut

The blade, it sang its morning tune,

beneath the harsh bathroom moon.

A swipe, a slip, a crimson bead,

a small reminder, what I need.

To be precise, to draw the line,

to make things clear, make them mine.

That little sting, a sudden plea,

for sharper edges, just for me.

It bled a bit, a tiny mark,

then stopped, a whisper in the dark.

Some cuts are clean, some leave a stain.

This one just proves, I feel the pain.