Ink That Bruises

A scrawl in shaky blue, uneven, cramped—

smudged at the edges where fingers once trembled.

"You'll never break through," it says, sharp as rust,

a jagged line that carved my name in dust.

I trace the letters, smearing memory,

the weight of words like stones inside a pocket.

The paper creases under my thumb’s slow press,

a cruel echo locked in that thin press.

Years later, that crooked phrase still bites—

a ghost written between the folds of my quiet nights.