Antiseptic

The knife slipped on the onion skin,

a quick, clean bite to the pad of the thumb.

I went for the bottle, tucked deep and thin,

in the cabinet where the old ghosts become.

The glass dropper clinked on the amber rim.

I painted the cut a deep, rusted gold,

watching the color go dark and dim

in a sting that felt honest and ancient and old.

It’s a medicinal heat, a sharp, orange stain

that marks where the body was broken today.

It doesn’t hide anything, not even the pain,

it just burns the bad parts of living away.