That plastic clasp

That plastic clasp,

weathered white, thin as a sigh,

snarled and cracked as if it held every fracture

like brittle bone.

Fingers fumbling the snap—

a sudden sting,

a shard biting skin—

a pinch of everything held too tight.

Like brittle promises,

looped and locking,

every name pressed flat against my wrist,

a tally of things to remember, to forget.

It curled in on itself,

giving up in slow motion,

crumbled under the weight of nights

that never quite end.

The link broke,

and with it the neat line

between past and present,

between here and the place I still can’t face.