The Too-Short Edge

A slip of the clip, a sting—

skin torn raw around the nail.

Pain blooms like a sudden flare,

sharp as a whispered curse.

I press the thumb, wincing,

a battlefield too small for armor.

That thin red line, bleeding,

the body’s small betrayals.

It’s foolish how something tiny

can steal the night’s calm breath,

a nagging pulse beneath the skin,

a reminder I’m flesh, fragile, alive.