On the edge of the porcelain the air feels like salt

On the edge of the porcelain, the air feels like salt.

I take the corner of the plastic

and pull until the hair snaps—

a staccato of tiny, wet protests.

The wound is a pink, surprised mouth

stunned by the cold.

A border of gray glue stays behind,

gathering lint from the towel,

a sticky ghost of where I was hurt.