Small Thorn

It's just a sliver, almost none,

a tiny line beneath the skin.

But like a battle, never won,

it lets a quiet hurting in.

I trace it with my thumb, a sigh,

a ghost of wood, too deep to find.

Too small to see with just my eye,

too stubborn to just leave behind.

A little grit, a soft, dull ache,

a constant, nagging, small complaint.

For goodness sake, for goodness sake,

why can't this tiny thing just faint?

It's not a wound, no bleeding sore,

just there, a presence, thin and keen.

A silent message, nothing more,

a tiny irritant, unseen.