Smudged Grades

A red smear stains the A,

damp ink bleeding like a bruise

across my last best score.

The paper smells like fresh rain,

a smell sharp and cold,

the weight of all those quiet afternoons

folded inside.

Smudged promise slips between fingers,

a line blurred that I want to claw clean.

Not all marks come from numbers,

some track the shape of doubt.

This grade hangs crooked,

swaying under the weight of what’s left unsaid.