Mordant

A scratch, a cut, a wound lays rest to my flesh. Invisible until now. A forest fire in my pores as blood slowly dries to a scarlet crust. I fold blankets of water then soap, and then water, to cleanse the sting, to cleanse the crust, to fight the fire. It was, until now, like a mosquito pricking away at my skin. It stayed, it rested, until it itched. I looked down among my wrist, two streaks of red on my skin. Two streaks of paint on a messy canvas.

Medical! Medical! I called his name! Until I was home, medical never came. Were did this, this, stamp of violence come from? This, mark left over... I had no clue what so ever. Who had done this? Why had I not felt it? Do I really care, do I really?

All I know, is that these streaks of paint on my messy canvas are barriers. I move my hand, mordant! I put down my arm onto the table, mordant! Hurt, hurt, hurt, how?