The rough edge of a thumbnail

Under the harsh glare of office light,

my thumbnail splits, uneven, cracked—

a tiny rebel against the polish of the day.

A dull ache blooms beneath the chipped edge,

like the sting of things I didn’t say,

pressed against the cluttered desk, unkempt.

I bite it raw, again and again,

a jagged little storm at my fingertip,

proof that even small things crack under pressure.

That rough edge catches the light,

a broken line I can’t quite smooth,

a silent signal nobody asked for.