The blade scarred in lines and layers,
Skin peeling, the bleeding wouldn't stop,
Flesh pulled, torn, ripped, nicked,
Blood welling and running down my arm,
Gathering around older scars, pockmarks.
That little pink disposable razor,
In the make-up bag, positioned for easy access,
In times of crisis and isolation,
Lies to tell about the cuts,
Already written out and rehearsed in my mind.