Tweezers

Cold. In every blood cell. Their faces stare from between the pages. Mirror upon mirror reflecting itself.

The words read backward since.

My splinter. You make the wound swell. The entry point no longer in question. It's the exit that we chase.

My splinter. Caught under the thinnest layers of flesh. Spoiling this infection.

That now it must be cured. When so much I'd hoped to keep it.

Cold as the bed is when into it I crawl. Heavy blankets do nothing to offset the sheet's waterfall.

They splinter. Agitate the wound. One tiny shred of truth tugging against that soft flesh.

Sharp enough to penetrate, but not deep enough to bleed.

Splinters. Under the skin and above it. Everything breaks.

The more it does, the tighter we hold.

Draw it out if you can. Or if not. just leave it there.

Let it fester.

It's not life, but it's the next best thing.