Kitchen Cut

The knife just slipped, a quick, dull glint.

Carrots on the board, bright orange, innocent.

Then a tiny bead, dark garnet, perfect,

bloomed on my thumb, a small, red defect.

Porcelain sink, cool and white,

caught the drip. A flash of old fight.

Not this blood, this simple, clean hurt,

but the other kind, the one that spurted

from a mouth, a sudden, harsh word,

years ago, when everything blurred.

I ran water, a clear, rushing sound.

The red thinned, turned pink, then was gone. Found

it hard to believe how fast it could wash away,

leaving just a ghost ache, like a bad day

you keep trying to forget.

But the water runs on, and I'm still wet.