Red Pen Logic

They’re tearing down the wing with the leaky roof,

the rooms where we learned to hide our hands.

I found a paper in a box, the only proof

that someone once understood my demands.

Mrs. Gable’s ink is a violent, dark shade,

looping around a comma I forced into place.

She saw the mess of the point I had made

and didn't look away from the wreck or the space.

That red circle looks like a fresh, open sting,

a reminder that clarity comes with a cost.

I never told her she was the only thing

keeping the better parts of me from getting lost.