It sits in the leathery, pink interior of the seldom-used manicure set,
The curved silver blades and black plastic handles,
So neat, so small and pocket-sized.
Those blades, though unopened, were so brilliantly detrimental,
Scraped along the back of a wrist,
Too far from the front's veins to cause any damage,
But drawing blood,
A new wound to hide and lie about,
Some more sick pride,
New scabs to pick.
It never heals,
The scar's still here,
So pale, almost the same shade as the surrounding skin,
Only I care enough to see it as any different.