The Sharp Thing You Made

It catches on everything now,

my sweater, my thoughts, my mouth

when I try not to notice.

The edge where it split

is still pink and raw,

I can't ignore the flaw

in my own carelessness.

I could file it down,

smooth the jagged crown,

make it look like nothing happened.

But I check it constantly.

The raw part still obviously

proof that I can break

something I can't remake

just by closing a window wrong.

It will grow back.

They always do—the facts

of recovery are simple.

But for now I have

proof I'm careless,

proof I'm reckless,

proof in my own skin.