Small Wound

The phone didn't ring. It never does.

I sat at the table, cold coffee in the mug,

and the quiet got loud, a humming buzz

inside my head, a slow, tight hug.

My thumb, it found the spot again,

along the edge, where skin meets nail.

A small habit, a familiar pain,

a way to make the bigger feelings fail.

Pulled a sliver, thin and white,

until a tiny sting, a bead of red.

Something small, something sharp, something right

there, where the thoughts get fed.