Frayed Edges

Waiting for coffee, a pause.

The steam curls, then doesn't.

My thumb, restless, finds the edge

of the nail, the skin there.

It's a small tear, barely visible,

a white flap against the pink.

Like a loose thread on a worn cuff.

Just enough to catch.

I pull it, a little hard.

Not thinking, just doing.

A tiny, precise sting.

A small bead of red, dark

against the pale skin, swells.

An old scar there, too.

From when I bit, or picked, or forgot.

Another small wound, self-inflicted.

Another detail missed, until it hurts.