The smudge of red ink

The smudge of red ink

on the corner of his story

looks like a bruise I didn’t mean to leave.

I folded it back into the pile,

forgotten essays where voices dim.

Yesterday, a mother’s eyes

held the weight of my words,

something sharp I didn’t see

until it cracked open the silence.

I ruined a line, a spark,

and now the child won’t write.

What kind of teacher shatters the light

with one careless mark?