Charcoal Nerve

charcoal—comes from something that burned all the way through its excuses

no color to charm you
no gloss to lie for you

just carbon—the aftertaste of fire
sitting in your hand

like it knows exactly what you’re avoiding

I take it anyway

it dirties me first
before

I make a single mark

Good

I don’t trust anything
that lets me stay clean

It drags across the surface like it’s pulling something out not placing something down

a line—too honest

another—already arguing with me

there’s no fixing it
only facing it

press too hard—it snaps

hold back—it exposes the hesitation like a cracked voice
mid-sentence

it reads the body better than I do

every tremor
every second of doubt
every moment I almost chose to be careful instead of real

it keeps all of it

even when I erase
and I do

it leaves a smear like a fingerprint at a crime scene

you were here

you meant that
or you didn’t

but you touched it

charcoal doesn’t care
about pretty
about finished
about approval

it cares about contact

about that split second
when the hand stops negotiating and just goes

reckless
accurate
unprotected

it’s not drawing

it’s exposure

a slow stripping
of whatever polish
I thought I needed

until what’s left
isn’t impressive
isn’t composed

just true enough
to make me look away

and then look back

because that’s the trap

once you see it
you can’t unsee
the version of yourself
that showed up in the mark

not the curated one

the other one

the one that doesn’t ask
to be liked

only to be left
on the page
exactly as it is

dark
unfinished
and impossible
to clean off completely