A paper cut stings like sharp words unsaid

A paper cut stings like sharp words unsaid,

     a flick of the finger, it catches me bare,

     the jagged edge speaks, a wound like a thread,

     invisible pains of the weight I still wear.

The pages were stacked, so I brushed against truth,

     stories forgotten, each line pinned to a fear,

     I linger on memories, my own kind of sleuth,

     how the smallest of wounds can feel big, so near.

These cuts are reminders of living too fast,

     the mundane can pierce through, dull moments ignite,

     so I pause, look closer, and think of the past,

     where each little ache adds to the whole, out of sight.