An inkblot tarnish that bleeds through sheets
of work, an all-consuming blackness that eats
through my morale like acid through a petal,

that slow and steady browning tainting
the pure white of that spotless rose,
imperfect now, and damaged,

the bruise that seeps across capillaries
of hope until all thought of life is tender
and sore to touch,

false colours marking things that shouldn't be,
my failure marked in bold for me to see.