Scratched in the Cold Tile

They wrote it there, half-hidden

beneath the flicker of buzzing light—

a sentence carved by shaking fingers,

shards of meaning pressed deep into grout.

A cracked tile holds the scars,

a faded ink bleeding out with time,

a raw confession spilling slow, uneven,

as if the bathroom walls could swallow shame.

I stared too long, as bus minutes piled up,

each syllable hitting closer to bone,

and the cold pulse of the message

lodged like a dull blade in my chest,

scratched too honest, desperate,

and too damned real to forget.