The Rust-Colored Cure

The rusty nail, a small red dot

that pulsed and stung, a burning spot.

I squeezed it hard, then found the bottle,

its amber dark, the stopper throttle

clicked open. And the smell, so sharp and deep,

it made a memory start to creep.

Every scraped knee, every childhood fall,

the sting of iodine covering it all.

That dark brown stain, it coats the ragged skin,

a promise of a burn before the cure begins.

A brutal grace, this liquid, bitter friend,

a wound acknowledged, till its painful end.