The Seam

The bridge is a parking lot today.

I’m stuck behind a rusted truck

leaking something dark and thick.

I bite down hard to change my luck.

My teeth find the old, familiar spot,

a jagged seam inside my cheek.

I pull until I taste the salt,

until the metal of the air gets weak.

The scar is a ridge I built myself,

a bit of skin I couldn't keep.

It’s better than screaming at the glass

or letting the silence get too deep.