A Small Break

There’s a chip, a tiny white nick,

right where the nail meets the quick.

My left thumb, almost invisible to you,

but I keep finding it, poking it through.

It’s not a big cut, no real deep sting,

just a small flaw, a minor thing.

But my finger keeps going there,

probing the edge, pulling the air.

Making it worse, a habit I hate,

a small split, sealing my fate

to this itch, this constant, dull need,

to worry the seed of a future bleed.