The dullest edge

The mirror is a lie of steam.

I scrape the foam away in strips,

trying to find the jawline

I’ll need for the 10:00 AM hearing.

The blade finds the small, raised bump—

a mole or a scar I forgot I owned.

It doesn't hurt, it just opens.

A bright, rhythmic welling

that spills into the porcelain.

I find a crumpled receipt in my pocket,

tear a corner of the 'Total Due,'

and press the dry pulp to my neck.

The white goes dark and wet,

holding the pulse in place.