Under the Skin

I leaned my arm, a casual rest,

and felt the rough wood, put to test

the skin so thin, the blue lines there,

a fragile map beyond compare.

The pulse beat low, a hidden drum,

a whispered word that had become

my present tense, my softest point,

where life and bone do anoint

the surface, tender, easily bruised,

a quiet truth I'd long refused

to notice. Now, it beats so clear,

a vulnerability held dear.