Permanent

I found it in a drawer today.

My report card from when I was twelve.

A teacher's comment in red: "Could do better," they say.

The words had the power to compel.

The grade was circled. So was the note.

Like the teacher wanted to make sure

I understood what they wrote—

that nothing about me was pure.

I remember that year.

Trying. Failing. The shame.

Thinking those red words were clear:

I was broken. I'd stay that way, tame.

And now, years later,

I find them again.

The old wound's a crater.

The pain is still then.

The teacher's probably retired.

Doesn't remember the kid

they destroyed with words they fired

at someone whose future they hid.

Those words on that paper—

they're still living in me.

Still cutting. Still sharp. Like a caper,

like they knew what I'd be.

I could throw it away.

I probably should.

Instead I put it back.

Back in the drawer where it waits.

Back where the past keeps track.

Back where I can't escape.