The Fragile Joint

The cabinet door caught me—sharp and quick,

a sudden pinch against the pale skin,

red blooming like a bruise, raw and close.

That thin ridge, my wristbone, pokes too near,

a hinge brittle as old wood,

a weakness folding under the weight of careless hands.

Pain pulses a dull throb, stubborn and slow,

a reminder beneath the skin’s fragile veil,

that even the smallest crack can spread.

I sit with my wrist cupped,

feeling the bone’s cold press through flesh,

a silent throb that won’t forgive the slam,

like a small wound kept alive in quiet.