Skin’s Quiet Tug

The sticky edge holds fast

like an argument you forgot to finish.

Slow peel, uneven—

tiny hairs snatched, a stinging protest.

A mottled red patch blooms,

adhesive remnants cling stubborn,

a rough breath against my pale wrist.

That sharp hiss—

a sudden flare under the skin’s thin veil,

a small betrayal remembered long after the touch.

Fingers hover,

the memory of pulling—

still pulling.