Fastener

It is too quiet in this bedroom.

When I pull the strap of the brace,

the sound is a physical thing,

a long, jagged rip that jars my teeth.

I look at the underside of the nylon.

There are tiny curls of gray lint

and one long strand of my own hair

tangled in the plastic hooks.

It took all day to admit the ache.

Now I sit here with my wrist bare,

watching the red marks on the skin

fade back into the white.