The small wounds we keep reopening

I keep looking at it

like looking might heal it,

like if I stare hard enough

at the dark line underneath,

it might reverse

and become

what it was three days ago.

It doesn't.

This morning I caught it on my sweater—

the same sweater,

the same cuff,

and felt the sting

run through the whole hand

like the thumbnail had

a nerve

that went directly to my brain.

It did.

There's blood under there,

pooling slowly,

a small bruise

that will take months to grow out,

months of carrying

this evidence

of my own carelessness,

my own inability

to open things

without destroying myself.

I keep catching it.

On the counter.

On the sink.

On the doorframe.

My body keeps

choosing this

small damage,

keeps reopening

what wants to scab,

keeps saying:

remember.

The nail bed is black now.

The nail will fall off

or it won't.

Either way,

I'll spend the next six months

watching it grow back,

watching the mark move

down the length of my finger,

watching my own body

keep score.