The bottle has lived in the back of the shelf

The bottle has lived in the back of the shelf,

keeping its bitter brown secrets to itself.

The date on the glass says twenty-fourteen,

back when my worries were sharper and lean.

I tip the plastic and watch the drop fall,

staining the palm like a mark on a wall.

That artificial orange, that medicinal sting,

the only relief that a small cut can bring.

It smells like a basement, like metal and salt,

reminding me everything is probably my fault.

I smear the amber across the raw skin,

and wait for the real work to finally begin.