The sheet in front of me is white and pristine,
And like the year’s first snow,
I anticipate its defilement with glee.
Deriving an instinctive pleasure from it,
The hand in front of me can barely keep up,
Each scribble builds on the next,
Climbing ever higher to something unattainable,
It takes me to a private place,
A nameless person saunters in catching me,
My heart lurches, spurting the ashamed blood into my cheeks,
Suddenly my enjoyment seems perverse,
The ink is so blue against the bridal white,
Its permanence rings throughout my vibrating body,
This stain is not the beauty I wanted.