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.