It’ll be just a moment, you say.
You don’t mind,
rhetorically stated.
A quick call
with limited pressure
gentle gliding of the blade
over the surface of many scars
Opening lightly it dances
retracing the raised white
memories.
Unexpectedly, the voice shakes
as the blade presses heavy.
Almost a whimper.
A shuddered breath.
Raised white re-opens
garish red dripping.
the weight of the blade does not ease.
Voice dropping, dieing
with each word.
Blood raises and rivulets form
dripping steadily
Eventually you finish
your call, lift the blade.
You text another, pressure applied.
Then scroll a moment on your phone
Blood swiped away. Nothing’s happened.
All is well, you say with a casual glance.
All I see are red wounds
and white scars.