What Ruins You Without Trying

I found it on the shoulder,

pulled over, got down to see

the slow leak. A nail so small,

so silver, so easy to miss.

The kind of thing that ruins you

without trying.

The hiss was already starting,

air leaving the tire like breath

I couldn't catch. I sat there watching

the wall go soft, the whole thing

giving up. Flat. Done.

I called no one. No one was coming.

I got the spare, the jack, my own

hands dirty in the dust.

This is what it means when nobody shows up—

you learn the tools.

The nail was nothing.

So casual about the damage.

I pulled it out and held it like evidence,

like proof I'd done something wrong

just by driving.

Just a thing that was sharp.

Just a thing that broke.

Now the tire is flat,

now it's on me to repair it,

now I'm the one who has to care.

Now I'm the only one who can.