The Mark

There are days when the chest feels swollen

with colors that refuse to spill,

when every thought presses against bone

yet the hands stay still,

betrayers of the fire caged within.

Emotions stack in silence

grief like stone,

rage like iron,

longing like smoke that coils but never clears.

The body hums with it,

a furnace choking on its own heat.

Even breath feels heavy,

as if the air itself has weight.

One mark

a scratch across paper,

a smear of color where none belonged.

So small, so insignificant

it almost vanishes as it begins.

But the crack opens.

And suddenly what was silent becomes roar.

The heart spills in torrents,

tears disguised as paint,

anger carved into jagged lines,

hope trembling in fragile curves.

Every bottled feeling surges forward,

demanding form,

demanding release.

What once was dammed breaks loose,

and the page becomes confession,

storm,

salvation.

Not because the mark was grand,

but because it was the one

that finally let the flood remember

how to move.