Raynaud’s Phenomenon

I stopped knocking when I saw the blood
Had drained out of me, again
Past my knuckles
Color faded to white

My fingers go numb in the cold
So I often miss when I’ve been outside
A little too long

I plunge my hands into my pockets
The pain will come soon

(White hot, they say, with almost no hint of irony)

I take one last, longing look at the wood fibers
The patterns etched over the years
The cobwebs and the flaking paint
The mess

Time to take care of my own

~ hezaasan (12/31/2024)