I have a scar on the bottom of my left thumb. I got it The day after you broke my heart the second time. I was trying to open something with a knife And it slipped. It went straight in Point first Right at the joint between my thumb and the pad of my hand That fleshy spot that is always stretching and wrinkling. I was shocked at first- it went in deep Almost two inches. I suppose, maybe, I should have gotten stitches. But what I did instead was pull the point out pop It made a small sound Like I was unstopping a tiny bottle of wine. In fact the hole in my hand Remained clean and white and surprised For a moment Startled, I think, by its own existence. And then it caught up to itself all at once And bubbled up thick red blood Faster than I expected it to. Beads of it slid down my fingers. Soon my hand was slick with it Shaking And I was still fascinated, transfixed, Slow. When the first drop hit the carpet I figured I should go into the bathroom and let the tiles take the stains. On the way there the world tilted a little Since now I held in my cupped hand a small pool of red. I resented my body's need for its own blood. Its fragility. It is so needy and so frail And I have no patience for it. On my knees on the smooth cold white floor And then with my cheek pressed against it To calm the fever of "shock" I hated that my shell could steal my will. I stood again in a moment Having left a smudge on the floor And my hand dripped pat pat pat Onto the tiles. The smoothness of my own blood surprised me- Its tendency to slip away and stand in pools. Again I looked for a moment And then ran my hand beneath the faucet And marveled at the way the water was instantly crimson. It kept running and running down the drain And after a while I realized that it was unlikely to stop. Lifting my now white hand I peered at it And there was the hole in it- A perfect slit, deep and clean and filling up with dark sticky red fluid. It overflowed again and I did my best to wrap it in bandages. The bathroom looked like a ****** scene. Who knew my hands Held so much? Who knew we were so easily punctured and drained? It took a long time to heal. I kept ripping it open by accident over and over Because of its prime location in the crease of my hand. It was weeks, really, before it actually did close. And weeks more Before it finally became less of an angry red And more of a thick, shiny pinkish white. It is raised. It still hurts sometimes, even though it has been months healed. I rather like it. I like the gory proof of what I went through when you walked away. It's just a small reminder, A little white ridge and a tightness on my skin But Well They say you don't know anything Quite so well as the look of your own hands And I think it is appropriate that the landscape of mine Was forever changed When you left.