Edge of Bone

The water glass

slipped, almost,

my sleeve caught back

on the table's rough edge.

And there,

the sudden pale jut

of my wrist,

a sharp edge against

the window's fading light.

A small ridge,

a secret map

under skin,

a blue vein pulsing,

just beneath the surface,

a slow, quiet drum.

How easily

it could snap.

How little holds it in.