Fault Line

Last night the train rattled like a loose tooth,

and in the glass,

a collarbone broke sharp,

a thin fault line cutting beneath my shirt.

Rain streaked down the window—

smudges like bruises,

city lights smeared into the wet glass.

I caught it once—

just a flicker,

then it was gone.

But it’s there still,

under this loose cotton,

the sharp crack of bone

that feels like it might snap,

or hold me together,

if I lean just so.

The shadow it casts is thinner than a secret—

edge of skin, ridge of cold,

a border I keep crossing and forgetting.