The Ridge I Keep Ruining

The DMV light is a dying strobe,

flickering above the woman at desk four.

I’m sitting on a plastic chair,

my number tucked into a sweaty palm,

and I’ve found that jagged ridge again.

It’s a mountain range my tongue knows by heart,

a scar I’ve built with my own teeth.

I nibble the edges of the skin,

peeling back the history of being nervous

until I taste the copper salt of it.

They haven’t called a number in twenty minutes.

I am mining my own mouth for relief,

destroying the repair just to feel the sting.