Refraction

Light bends where it enters, the surface a threshold between worlds. Below, shadows swim in fractured gold.

I watch my hand dissolve into angles and impossibilities— skin becomes polygon, fingernails become prisms refracting what I cannot hold.

The water doesn't lie. It only redistributes the truth, scatters it into colors that were always there, waiting for the angle to change.

When I pull my hand out, it snaps back whole. But something in my palm remembers the other shape, the one that lives in bending.