The Exposed Bone

The gas station bathroom, mirror streaked and cold.

Bent over the sink, hands I could barely hold

steady beneath the tap.

And there, in the harsh, flat glow

of the LED tube, my collarbone.

Too sharp, too distinct.

The ridge of it, a clean, white line,

a pale shadow pooling in the hollow

of my neck. The skin drawn tight,

almost translucent.

Like something excavated,

or peeled back.

My own bone, exposed,

under that clinical, unforgiving light.