Scratch

The claw rips the skin asleep.
Sound pulls the ear to pain.
A paw rushes away into darkness.
The creature can't be found.
Blood rushes to air and pools.
It flows and drips.
Soft paper dabs the wound.
Red drops fall on white sheets.
Water pours on open flesh.
Pain rises into blinking eyes.
It scurries down cheeks,
a slow stream of flowing salt.
It scampers down to trembling chins,
and steps down upon strained necks,
into tight chests and upset stomachs.
It settles in bones buckling underneath,
and rides around in nerve ending extremities.
Potions clean with bubbling heat.
Scars form outside after time.
The tracks we wear heal, outside.
Inside, they wait for a hand to peel
their skin shell back and feel the pain, again.
Until the scratch becomes a sad, sob story,
in the wandering hurt mind and hardens, like a stone.