There’s this cut between my fingers, slit where my first and middle fingers web; it still hurts. Sometimes I forget it’s there, the sharp pain not even a memory, until I mindlessly stupidly open my hand, I remember why I kept it closed. When it bleeds I let it, watch the warm rusty red flow onto the carpet, think about all the reasons I’ve bled lately. I don’t remember how I cut my hand, but anything before it feels a lifetime away.