The Slip

The blade was dull.

I knew it was dull.

I used it anyway.

Too much pressure

and the skin gives—

just like that,

no ceremony,

no buildup.

Skin is thinner than you think

until you feel it.

A drop beading.

Foam-white in the mirror,

my face distorted in it,

and I'm watching the blood

like it's the most interesting thing

I've seen in weeks.

I grab a tissue.

Pressure.

Wait.

This is how it happens, I think—

not in some big moment,

but in the bathroom

on a Tuesday morning

when you couldn't be bothered

to buy new blades,

when you thought the old one

had one more shave left.

It did.

I just didn't.