The Garden's Hidden Splinter

Wood slips under skin,

sharp and silent,

a thin betrayal hiding in the dirt.

Blood beads at the edge,

mixing soil with pain.

I pull it free, fingers trembling,

a quiet wound, small but insistent.

The sting reminds me:

something unseen can still break you,

stay lodged deep, hard to shake.

Pain beneath patience,

a tiny needle of truth,

pricking me awake.