On my left hand there is a scar.

It's tiny, a mere dot.

It was where the needle once was, mis-poked and quickly abandoned. It was where goodness and life were supposed to flow through and enter me, nourish me. Instead it opened a passageway for me to escape, little droplets of blood leaking out.

Now, the hole has been plugged by a mixture of platelets, plasma and suicidal red blood cells. But inside? Oh it looks like it still bleeds.

A small hole, minuscule. Underneath the skin a small amoeba shaped bruise like colour. Blood flowing, but blood trapped. I think it wants to run away, just like me.

I want to touch it, perhaps the colour will dissipate if I do, but it looks too much like a bruise. I don't want to make it worse. The prick spot looks like a nucleus of the cell of this newly foreign spot on my body - one of many.

I opt to kiss it instead. A gentle grazing. It feels lukewarm to my lips. I look at it again, no, nothing has changed, the colour remains. I wonder if anyone has ever kissed that spot before, had it ever been loved before someone came and rudely stuck a needle into it?

I wonder if it still bleeds, like me - or has it managed to move on faster than I have?