the razor package promised it could not snag skin
but somehow your leg is bleeding.
drops tumble like pomegranate seeds – try to gather them
in your cupped hands, raise them to your mouth.
discover it does not taste like ruby-fruit.
instead your mouth is pennies
and you read once that the body tastes
copper briefly before death.
maybe the shin’s razor nick is the end of you.
maybe your shower head has been trying
to drown you all along.
the violence is there, in how you can’t look away,
how you keep telling your hands to apply pressure
to the cut, but instead fingers pull the wound open:
the gasping of little crimson lips. you live in the swirls
of red curling clockwise down the drain.
your blood resists the clotting.