We pinch the flesh of thumbs
between the corkscrew tongs:
witness a navy splotch
surface to skin, an island.
In too-high heels we catch
the step, draw blood: ten stitches.
We nick, we slice, we cut;
we bleed, we burn, we bruise.
We cloak every medallion
under sleeves, turtlenecks.
Calling for help, we fall,
fracture our wrists, our faces.
The bandages, the staples,
peeled off. The rising scars.