Circles in Red

The paper curls at the edges,

yellowed like forgotten afternoons.

A 'C-' scribbled in shaky red,

the ink smudged where a tear once fell.

I hold it like a fragile thing,

as if it might crumble,

like the tight voice that snapped

in the kitchen,

Mom's breath caught between words,

sharp as broken glass.

Dust motes float,

slow dancers in the afternoon light,

but I remember the quiet more—

the space where hope thinned,

where that grade wasn’t just a mark,

but a weight pressing down

on the back of my neck,

on my skin,

on the way I learned to shrink.

This brittle paper

holds everything I tried to forget,

and maybe still can't.