The Paper Cut

It was just mail,

just the envelope, and the paper caught

my hand, and I watched the thin blood trail

down my knuckle. A small cut. I fought

against the anger—disproportionate, wrong,

at the paper, at my own hand,

at how fragile I am, how I don't belong

in a world where small things understand.

I stood there shaking,

furious at something so small,

and I realized what was breaking—

it wasn't the cut at all.

It was everything. Every small wound,

every paper cut of a life I can't smooth.

I'm tuned to break easily, and I'm pruned

to fall apart. I'm coming loose.

So I'm standing here, bleeding,

angry at paper, at the debris

of my own fragility. And I'm still receding

into a version of me

that I don't recognize anymore.