Crisp Edges

Sorting through the statements,

three years of bills,

stacked high, sharp-edged.

My thumb, my index finger,

just grazing the grain,

then that sudden sting.

Two clean lines,

parallel, almost invisible.

Tiny red smiles

opening on my skin.

They don't bleed much,

just a pinpoint dot,

but oh, the fire when water hits.

Like the paper itself

recalling its tree,

its rough, forgotten truth.

Small, sharp, persistent.

Not enough to stop,

but enough to remember

what a clean edge can do.