flesh wound

you try to ignore
your cut finger,
it's just the tip,
but it keeps
bleeding, cut from
when you bent
over to pick up
the broken glass
from a lightbulb
you twisted off
too fast in the
hall ceiling.
you wash it out,
wrap it in tissue.
the blood keeps
coming. there is a
trail of crimson
drips along
the floor, from
the stairs to
the kitchen.
it has no
door to close,
this cut, no
window to put down.
you believe that
this is how things
will end. even
a small hole,
can sink a ship.