Plastic Memory

I was looking for a pen in the back of the drawer,

under the batteries and the tangled twine.

I found the yellow ruler we used to war over,

back when I thought what was yours was mine.

The edge isn't straight; it’s a jagged terrain

where you bit down hard when you couldn't speak.

Four little canyons of anger and pain,

pressed into plastic because you were weak.

The sun hits the dust on the surface of the wood,

lighting the grooves where your incisors sank.

I’d smooth it all out if I thought that I could,

but the record is permanent, bitter, and blank.