Under the Skin

Wiping the table down,

the usual damp cloth,

the sweet-sour smell of cleaner.

Then that sudden catch.

A sharp, small prick

on my index finger.

I pulled back, looking for blood,

but just a tiny, dark line

under the skin.

Barely there, a hair's width,

but it burns now, a steady point.

Every movement, a reminder.

A foreign thing, buried deep,

insisting it's still here.