Paper thin, blood deep

A pristine white envelope, sharp and new,

slipped through my fingers, a silent blade.

A thin red line, almost blue

against the skin, a small parade

of tiny blood beads, bright and stark.

It looks so clean, this little slice,

not like a gash, no messy mark,

but oh, the sting, it’s not so nice.

It burns, a tiny, constant fire,

reminding me, with every bend,

how small things can ignite desire

for pain to stop, how they transcend

their size. A paper cut, a quiet bite,

almost invisible, but makes you flinch.

And lingers, burning, through the night.