The Knife’s Trace

A slip, the blade’s quick whisper,

a flash of pain, sharp and clean.

Blood pooling slow,

spreading like a dark map

across the cutting board.

The scar zigzags, silver thin,

a fracture line beneath rough skin,

where time tried to smooth over

but left its jagged script.

I watch my thumb flex,

touch the raised skin,

remember the kitchen’s breath,

the moment everything slipped

and held fast instead.