The white part too exposed

The white part too exposed.

The nail bed raw and pink,

the color it should never be.

I can't stop touching it.

My mother used to examine hers

the same way—

in the kitchen light,

turning her hand,

looking for what the damage meant.

I'm doing it now.

Same hand position.

Same obsessive attention

to something so small

it shouldn't matter.

But the thumbnail catches

on everything—

the fabric of my shirt,

the inside of my pocket,

the moment I forget

I'm broken there.

And I remember her

in the kitchen,

looking at her own

raw place,

and I wonder

if she was looking for the same thing—

proof that small injuries

leave a mark,

that even the smallest part of you

matters enough

to hurt.