The Final Word

The printer paper,

cold in my hand,

edged with that sharp, thin sting

of a paper cut.

A small red line

blossomed, quiet,

like a secret.

This stack, years old,

the final email thread,

each sentence a brick,

carefully laid,

to build a wall,

to win.

And I did, I won.

His last reply,

a curt, clean cut,

no reply needed.

Just silence,

a hollow space where

something used to breathe.

The victory tasted like

ash on my tongue.

A small, new wound now,

a reminder,

how easily blood comes

from something so flat, so white.

How winning can leave you

standing alone

in a room

too quiet.