Day Four

The cut wakes me at three. It's minor—

a can lid, a thin line across

the base of the thumb. The liner

of new skin is what's the cause

of the itch. I know that. I go

to the bathroom anyway, hold

my hand under the light: the slow

pink ridge at the edge. The old

wound closing without asking me.

I scratch around it—not the cut,

the skin beside it. Carefully

undoing nothing. The rut

of this: four nights now, crouching

over my own palm in the bright

bathroom light. Reaching,

almost-scratching. Tight

with something I didn't start

thinking about until tonight.

Something separate. A part

of me that keeps the light

on longer than it needs to be.

The pink ridge. The thin line.

The body finishing. Me

watching. Not quite fine.