Almost Healed

2 a.m. and it's the arm—

not anxiety, not the numbers I ran before bed,

just the actual arm,

the cut from two weeks ago when the cabinet corner

caught me and I bled through a paper towel

and then forgot about it.

Now it's healing.

Which means it itches

in a way that feels autonomous,

something closing up without consulting me.

I went to the bathroom and held it under the light—

the scab edge raised and pink,

new skin almost glossy underneath,

like a zipper being pulled shut from the inside.

It was almost pretty.

I didn't expect that.

The body just handling things,

repairing what I'd already

adjusted to.

I went back to bed.

It itched for another hour.

I lay there with my arms at my sides

and thought about the word healed—

how the body uses it

without asking.