Learning the Pressure
Ink on skin-thin paper.
The blade warm from my hand.
Too much and it bruises.
Too little and nothing stays.
The first pull stutters —
grain catching,
edge biting back.
The room smells faintly metallic.
Rubber.
Oil.
Breath held too long.
I press again.
Harder this time.
The line blooms, then fractures.
A mistake — but an interesting one.
Fingers smudge what shouldn’t be touched.
Palm learns what the eye can’t yet see.
There is drag.
There is slip.
There is the quiet thrill of almost.
This isn’t control.
It’s negotiation.
Each pass teaches my body
how much force it’s allowed.
How close to ruin
before something beautiful appears.
I’m not copying an image.
I’m listening for it —
through vibration,
through resistance,
through the small shock
when the mark finally lands.
Learning isn’t gentle.
It’s intimate.
Sweaty.
Uncertain.
And suddenly —
without announcing itself —
my hands know.