Splinters

I do not know which wound was the first,

only that they bred in me like weeds in untended soil.

Your words,

once a warm place to stand, turned sharp, splintering under my bare feet.

I keep walking barefoot anyway.

Because I cannot tell which cuts are new and which have simply never healed.

There are days I rehearse the moment I could have turned away,

but didn’t.

Anger flares hot,

brief, and consuming,

then folds into the dull ache of sadness,

its weight familiar as the shape of my own hands.

You took something I didn’t know was fragile until it shattered.

And now, even in rooms you’ve never entered,

I catch my breath, waiting for the floor to give way.