When Grace Breaks

The paper lies folded, crumpled,

on the windowsill streaked with rain.

The silence after is louder

than the prayer I whispered once.

It came true—sharp and sudden—

a knife carving hollows where hope grew.

The thing I begged for, held like a secret,

turned cold, broke me open from inside.

I wanted relief, not this bruised quiet,

this hollow echo of a wish fulfilled.

Now the silence presses, hard and sharp,

and I don’t know how to breathe again.