The Harsh Crinkle of Everyday

The sharp tear snaps under fingers,

jagged like the breath caught in my throat.

Silver sheet shimmering,

crumpled edges sharp with sound,

breaking the thin skin of silence in the kitchen.

I smooth it back out,

a futile patch on the worn shelf,

mirroring the fissures inside,

every crinkle a memory cracked open.

Under fluorescent hum,

aluminum’s cold light glints,

a brief rebellion against smoothness,

rough and sudden as a held-in scream.

Everyday’s small destruction,

and I trace the shards

with bruised palms.