Shelf for a Secret

The mirror catches it,

that sharp edge,

pushing through

the skin, a thin sheet.

My fingers trace the line,

from throat to shoulder's fall,

just under the surface.

It’s always there, a little ledge.

I smooth lotion on,

the coolness against the bone,

feel the fine grit

of forgotten sun.

It’s not just bone,

but a history,

a place where secrets rest

right on the top shelf,

waiting to be found.