the fresh wound

it's an unseen finish nail
buried part way
in the folds
of old wallpaper
that catches the fat of
my palm
in scraping.
the blood flowers quickly
to the white tile,
the vanity,
the floor.
it springs upon my shirt.
my life blood,
so easily let free.
it blooms in rivulets,
in swirls,
circles, in crimson
bands.
I run the cold water under
the new wound
and see the crevice of skin
now open,
then place a cloth
upon it to stop the bleeding.
with my left
hand I clean the evidence
of my life.