Lessons That Break

Ink bleeds into the page,

red lines like cracks in dry earth.

My essay shredded —

a quiet murder

in the weight of her impatience.

The words crumble,

paper limp between fingers,

a frail leaf caught

in a storm it didn’t choose.

Her voice cracks — authority

tearing through

what I’d tried to build,

a slow unraveling

between submission and loss.

This is the lesson:

not all breaking heals.