𝕬 𝕾𝖆𝖉 𝕻𝖔𝖊𝖙 𝕴𝖓 𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊

The Theft

It's stupid, I know,

but tears streak my face,

over a pencil case lost,

robbed of its grace.

Markers stolen, scissors too,

items that held pieces of me.

Pencils left discarded,

a mockery of what used to be.

No return to the "lost and found,"

just a scavenger's selfish delight.

They took what they wanted,

leaving my heart lighter by might.

I cry not just for the stolen things,

but for the weight that life piles on.

Grades slipping, connections frayed,

a storm in my chest never went away.

Call me sensitive, call me weak,

but this wound cuts deep and true.

It's not about what was taken away,

but the way it reflects a world askew.

I sit in silence, hands unsteady,

clutching what little remains.

For now, I grieve over pens and rulers,

but beneath it, I mourn deeper pains.