The Fault Line

The manila folder was sharper than it looked,

leaving a thin red line across the underside

of my left arm, right where the pulse is.

It’s such a small, unintentional opening,

but the blood is bright and surprisingly fast.

I looked at my watch to see if I could go home,

but I ended up just staring at the blue map

of veins running under the surface.

The skin there is like wet tissue paper

stretched over a secret you aren't supposed to tell.

You forget how little there is between the air

and the machinery that keeps the clock ticking,

until a piece of paper reminds you how easy

it would be for the whole thing to stop.