The Vertical Line, Or, My Own Small Fault

Picking at a hangnail, a nervous habit,

my left hand, always the busy one.

And there it is, my thumbnail,

catching the light, just so.

A faint ridge, almost invisible,

running straight down the middle.

It's been there forever, I think.

A tiny crack, not quite a split,

but a permanent, minor imperfection.

It doesn't hurt, it doesn't cause

any trouble, really.

Just… there.

A small fault line,

etched into the surface,

a reminder, always,

that even the smallest things,

the things you carry,

are never quite smooth,

never quite whole.

Just a little line,

a private flaw,

catching the light,

and then it's gone,

back into the shadow

of my own hand.