To the Quick

The nurse has a clipboard and a heavy tread.

I’m sitting on the paper that crinkles like dead

leaves while I pick at the edge of my thumb,

waiting for the part where my skin goes numb.

I hit the sanitizer pump by the door

and felt the fire bloom, sudden and pure,

where I tore the nail back into the pink.

It’s a small kind of hurt that makes you think.

Now there’s a jagged white moon on the side,

snagging the wool where the threads have untied.

I’m just a collection of edges and fray,

praying they don't call my name today.