They made us curl into letters,
thin spines of graphite breaking
on hardwood desks, splinters of effort.
The teacher’s ruler tapped our knuckles,
slanting our hands toward perfection.
Loops like rivers, slanted like shadows,
our papers bled with blue veins
while clocks swallowed the morning away.
We shaped our names like whispered hymns,
coiled strokes curling into identity.
It was a religion of the wrist,
faith in the rhythm of repetition.
Then the century turned and screens
lit up like artificial prophets,
fingers leaping over plastic tombs.
No more grooves in the page,
no ink to smear into permanence,
just the flat pulse of backlit fonts.
They unstitched the muscle memory,
let the curves grow limp and slack,
forgot how letters could hold weight.
Once, we danced in circles,
but now, we type in straight lines,
hoping the loops don’t unravel entirely.