Uneven Marks

The wooden comb lies

with teeth uneven, ragged,

a rough scar etched in grain.

Fingers trace the chipped edges,

a silent confession pressed into wood,

someone else's story stuck

in the missing pieces.

The marks hold fast,

a ghost of bites, nervous habits,

the imperfect print left behind

like a half-spoken secret

waiting to be understood,

waiting still.