Red Ink, Fourth Grade

The rain, it holds the sky

heavy, a low grey ceiling

pressing down on the house.

Makes the attic

feel closer, like a secret

breathing in the rafters.

In the garage, among paint cans

and old garden tools,

a metal box. Not locked,

just tucked away.

Inside, stiff paper,

corners worn thin.

My name, handwritten,

small in the top right.

Mrs. Davies, her loops and hooks,

a comment, red as a scraped knee.

Needs improvement in focus.

The ink bled slightly

at the edges of the capital 'F'.

I can almost smell

the dust still clinging

to the paper, and the way

my small thumb picked

at that frayed edge.

Always picking, then.

Still.