My hands are stained with ink,
the blood of a thousand words never uttered.
My fingers seep blackness,
their paper-skin tips tattered and burned
from contact with the forbidden muse:
myself, my mind, my soul.
Formless words coat my skin,
up to the elbows in thoughts
that should never have passed these vile lips.
Bittersweet poison on my tongue
escaping through my teeth.
I'm kneeling in a dark, spreading pool—
a crime scene—
and yet my gaze is blank.
As blank as my still-empty page.

h.f.m.