Discontent is a shallow bloom, sharp edged, porcupine quills shooting up along the curve of a back, an ache in the teeth. Discontent is a toe stubbed, partially healed, stubbed again. Discontent simmers in a paint flecked pot, clouds the water, sticks to the sides of the mouth. Discontent is daylight that never falls, a pinprick in a shadow, a lost sliver of quiet. Discontent is an itch under the skin, a blister on the tip of a tongue, an abrasion on a salty palm. Discontent is a loose thread on a starched hem, a hole in the toe of a sock. Discontent is a wrinkle in the eye, a quiver in the heart, a prelude to sorrow.