Papercut

Stories beget injury.

Upon opening my morning read,

the coarse pages ripped through

my delicate hand.

A cut grows to a slice,

a slice to a gash,

a gash to a mess,

a mess to a scar.

I staunch the viscous trail of blood

with more paper pressed to my

palm.

Crimson cords of pain

burn into a blank page.

A steady stream of memories

leak into eternity.

And still the flow refuses to slow.

Sharp, metallic tang of regret

captures my tongue

when I lift the paper to suck

the wound.

Splatters of rust on white bloom

as no more than Rorschach.

Formless puddles of experience

I’m left to shape

into rational thoughts with

universal meaning.

I bleed an entire river,

sheet after sheet after sheet,

soulful flecks of my identity

spewed into existence.

An onlooker will be disgusted,

of that I am convinced.

I long to hide the pages

where no one will see

the extent of my injury.

But even when the blood dries,

my papercut has left a scar.

If the blemish remains in

public eye,

Then I may as well

share the story behind it.

Stories beget injury,

but through telling,

we heal.