Small Injuries

I bit my tongue while eating breakfast,

hard enough to draw blood,

hard enough to remember

that there's scar tissue there—

silvery, smooth, from a time

I don't fully remember.

The doctor called it

a minor injury.

As if anything your body carries

can be minor.

I pull my tongue down now,

look at it in the mirror,

at the place where I bit myself,

where blood pools small

and specific.

The scar is still there,

underneath the fresh wound,

a map of something

I survived,

something I've forgotten

the details of.

I think about all the small injuries

I've collected over the years—

the ones I remember clearly,

the ones I've buried,

the ones my body remembers

even when my mind has moved on.

My mother always said

I was too hard on myself,

but I think she meant it

in a different way.

The blood tastes like metal.

The scar is still silver.

I'm trying to remember

what hurt me before this,

what made this mark,

but the details slip away,

and all I have is

the evidence.

All I have is this—

my tongue against my teeth,

the small, specific pain,

the scar that says

I survived something,

even if I can't remember

what it was.