Small Maps of Damage

The wound is small, barely a thing,

but my tongue won't stop

investigating it.

I bit my cheek eating lunch

and suddenly I'm aware

of the soft pale underside

I've never had to think about before,

the delicate geography

of the inside of my mouth.

It catches on my teeth.

I flinch.

I go back to it.

We only know ourselves

through damage.

That's what I'm learning,

sitting at my desk,

my tongue probing

the break in my own body,

the small evidence

that even the parts

I can't see

can be hurt.

It will heal.

It's nothing.

But for now,

my tongue has found

a map of itself

written in pain,

and I can't

stop reading it.