What I Saw

I was sitting on the floor,

cross-legged,

not thinking about my body

the way you do

when you're not thinking about your body,

when it's just there,

holding you up,

doing its job,

invisible in its usefulness.

Then I saw the mirror,

and I saw my ankle,

and it was so small.

I didn't know it was small.

I didn't know

the bone was so close to the skin,

that I could see the architecture

of myself,

that my own body

was so fragile,

so delicate,

so close to breaking.

The skin stretched thin,

the tendon visible,

the bone

almost white

against everything else,

like my body had a secret

it was trying to hide,

and I'd accidentally

discovered it,

had caught myself

being

vulnerable

in a way I didn't know

I was vulnerable.

I looked away.

I sat on my leg.

I covered it.

But I know now

what I saw,

know that underneath

the everyday

of my own limbs

is this fragile architecture,

this small and delicate thing,

and I'm walking on it,

trusting it,

every single day,

and I never knew

how close

the bone was

to breaking through.