The brittle teeth

Found the comb—yellowed and cracked,

a relic caught in dust and old fights.

Its brittle teeth tangled

with a single, stubborn strand of hair.

We fought, words like brittle plastic snapping,

sharp edges biting deeper than skin.

I held that comb like a token,

a silent witness to a childhood

splintering.

It smells like forgotten years, sweat and plastic,

and the sharp sting of things that stay,

even when you want to forget.