Stain

Left-handed.

By afternoon

my palm is dark—

graphite staining where I work,

the small dark mark

that proves I've been writing.

I could wash it.

I keep looking instead,

drawn to the stain,

the gray that will remain

on my skin.

There's proof in the smudge,

evidence in the mark—

the work rubbing off on me,

leaving what's dark

and permanent.

I carry the stain

like I've been handling

something real,

something I can feel

pressing into my skin.

I look and keep looking.

The mark won't disappear today.

It will fade, but not now—

today I carry

the visible proof

that I was here,

that something moved through me

and left what cannot

be unseen.