When a lesson breaks

Red ink spilled across the page,

words sharp like broken glass:

“Not enough.”

I folded the paper

at the crease torn ragged,

a crease that split more than paper.

Your voice—meant to guide—

ended up folding me,

quiet like a shadow

smothering the daylight.

There was a time I believed you,

then watched those lessons

crack the glass where I once stood,

unbroken but now fractured,

splintered beyond repair.

A teacher’s hand—too heavy—

ruined the space where learning should live.