The Resistance

The blade catches on something—

a scar I forgot I had.

I feel it before I see it,

that small resistance,

the metal finding the break in the skin.

How long has this been here?

I've shaved around it, over it,

touched my jaw a thousand times

without knowing.

The scar is thin, pale,

a line so small it shouldn't count,

but the blade knows.

The blade finds it every time.

This is how the body keeps score.

Small marks that feel important

when something metal finds them,

when the surface gives way.

I sit on the edge of the tub

and touch the scar with my finger.

I can barely feel it.

But the razor felt it.

The razor always knows

where you've been torn.