The Line She Carries

In the bathroom light,

that narrow crease splits her skin like a fault line—

quiet, but faulting.

I never noticed it before,

until today, when she stopped and stared

like it was a scar etched overnight,

like it had weight.

Her eyes carried it downward,

folding the line tighter,

and I thought:

this wrinkle holds the quiet presses

of worry, the slow squeezing of years

caught between each brow,

a map of a place no one visits,

except in the mirror.