I wrote a poem about a cut that I got on my finger

because it didn’t hurt

and I thought it was strange

the line of red

lulling out.

I put my finger in my mouth

and let the sweet rust

spread across my tongue

as a coat

of armor

and it still didn’t hurt-

that cut on my finger

so thin like the paper that made it

a double edged blade

made of sweet

of not caring for pain anymore

In that moment I had an immunity

That couldn’t be felt

and couldn’t be seen

I wrote a poem about a cut

that I got on my finger

because I thought it was strange

that I didn’t hurt anymore.