Lines in Red

The knife slips—a clean cut

but my hand bleeds slow, a stain

on the fruit’s pale flesh.

Antiseptic stings,

and the red smear

spreads like stories I never tell.

Bloodlines tangled tight,

beneath skin, beneath years,

a quiet map I hide.

That dark smear on the counter—

a silent witness to the same

unspoken hurts that crack

through generations,

sticky, sharp, unforgiving.