What Shows When You Break

The nail split below the quick and now

I can't stop looking at it. Somehow

it became the most important thing—

this small exposure. The way it brings

evidence of breaking. The nail bed

raw and vulnerable, the white part shed

like it never mattered. Just skin

underneath. Just the thing beneath

the protective layer. I keep catching

it on doorframes. I keep watching

to see if it hurts more when I look.

It does. Or maybe I misread the book

of my own body. Maybe pain

and fascination are the same.

I trace the edge where it split.

The jagged line. The way it quit

its job of protecting me. The exposure

is almost beautiful. This closure

of the breaking. This proof

that I can be damaged. The roof

of the nail was supposed to shield

the bed underneath. But revealed

it is now. And I keep looking.

Keep pressing. Keep unlocking

the moment when I caught it.

When it tore. When I forgot

that nails were meant to hold

together. That breaking means

becoming visible. Obscene.

Raw. And I can't stop

looking at it. Can't make it stop

mattering. Can't look away.