Grain on the Tongue

The ice. A bad habit.

That crack,

sudden, like a door

slamming in a quiet room.

Not pain, not yet.

More like a jolt,

a loose wire.

Then the grit.

Small, hard,

on my tongue.

A grain of sand,

but it wasn't sand.

It was me.

A piece of bone,

of enamel.

A small thing,

but sharp.

I rolled it,

tasted the mineral,

the deep, cold shock

of knowing

what's inside.

How brittle.

How easily

it lets go.