Fading Marks

Blunt tip pressed hard into the paper,

a desperate scratch marking the page.

Ink ran out, and all I have left

is this stub, barely holding a line.

Words crumble under my fingers,

smudged edges of thought slipping away,

the graphite smears like old bruises

no one wants to name.

I press down again, trying to pull

something sharp, something real,

out of the tired smear—

a mark that might still mean something,

but fades before I finish.