Pinned and Pricked

I jammed my thumb against the wall

while the rust-specked tack held a tired flyer.

The prick shot sharp — no warning,

just a quick stab of something forgotten.

Half-buried in the cork, dull metal gleamed,

holding years like a tiny, stubborn secret.

I pulled my hand back slow, feeling the sting

and the sudden weight of all the things I've pinned

and left behind—letters curled in dust,

a calendar torn at the edges,

a stubborn hope hanging fragile,

like the thumbtack, sharp and faded,

persistent even when ignored.