Broken Desk

Chipped paint flaked under my palm,

the desk scarred with old pencil marks.

I traced the lines of that classroom,

walls holding the weight of words

that cut through my quiet.

Her voice, sharp edges,

carving doubts into pages,

a promise that broke

what I thought I could hold.

Something soft turned brittle,

a sentence cracked,

a feeling torn between lines,

a gift ruined by hands meant to guide.

I left pieces behind,

scattered in the dust

of that broken desk.