I could see it clearly
in the glass.
The thin scar,
red as death,
sliding down my cheek.
I reached
to touch its rough surface.
But it curved away.
In fear.
And spread
farther down.
It crossed my throat.
And opened
to touch my scream.
But my voice
had gone
years ago.
And the hole lay empty.
I tried to fill it.
With finger.
And fist.
And arm.
But still it mocked me.
Widening.
Beckoning.
consuming.
Until I was gone.
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