Counter Scrape

My knuckle caught the counter's sharp,

unyielding edge, a sudden warp

of skin, a line of red.

I grabbed the bottle, brown, unsaid,

the liquid waiting.

It bit the air, a clean, harsh scent,

then on the cut, a jolt was sent.

A stinging, cold and deep.

The brown began to spread and creep,

a map on my skin.

Now dry, a patch of rusty brown,

it stains the hand, won't wash it down.

A mark for clumsy grace.

The sticky feel, it holds its place,

a small, sharp history.