My thumb is gray from the graphite ghost

My thumb is gray from the graphite ghost

of a word my mother decided to kill.

She dug the pencil into the host

of the paper page with a jagged will.

It’s a name for a girl who was never here,

a softer set of vowels than mine.

I can feel the trench of her sudden fear

in the way the fibers break and entwine.

I’m the second thought, the fallback plan,

built on the ruins of a torn-out sheet.

I trace the scar where the sharp lead ran

and feel the pulse of a heart that didn't beat.