The Broken Pencil

The Broken Pencil

The broken pencil

lies where I left it,

a thin, cold wound

across my quiet space.

Its snapped-off point

still carries all my secrets,

the ones I wrote

when fear was louder.

I touch the crack,

feel something in me echo,

a silent break

I cannot hide.

The page stays blank,

as if it knows my weakness,

as if my thoughts

are meant to bruise.

I try again,

but every mark grows crooked,

like trembling hands

that lost their truth.

The darkness folds

around my failed confession,

a deeper shade

I sink into.

And in the end,

the pencil feels like warning,

a small, sharp piece

of what I am.