Structural

I'm picking at the price tag on a brand new mug,

giving the adhesive a sharp, little tug.

The kitchen light is harsh and it's brutally clear,

showing every mile of this god-awful year.

I pull back my sleeve and the bone is right there,

a pale, stony knob in the afternoon glare.

The ulna is pressing through skin gone so thin,

like a secret that's trying to crawl out from in.

It’s a structural thing, a hinge and a joint,

sharpened by time to a jagged, white point.

I’m mostly just scaffolding, wire, and luck,

trying to scrape off the labels that won't come unstuck.