Once I wrote
A poem
At school.
I was
Nervous
And afraid
Of judgment from peers
So placed it on the chair
Of my third grade teacher.
The next day
Atop my desk
Sat my poem,
Face down.
And through my shaky handwriting
Were bright ink lines
Of red.
A woman whom I trusted
To guide and teach me
Had slain the innocent beauty
Of the poetry I had made.
These innocent children
I brought to life and raised
Were slaughtered
Destroyed.
Left to bleed red
On the paper,
They cried out, asking,
“Why?”
And I
Still a child,
Stammered at the question.
Why did they have to die?
I still today cannot answer.

To this very day
I never write in red ink.
When I see the color
On a creation of mine
The innocent child in me
Weeps
And mourns the loss of her children;
Her innocence, her passion.
She sees the red ink
And still wonders why
Her children died
A ****** ink-red death.

So now,
Even still a child,
But a taller one
With more hardened features,
And many more words,
I refuse to see blood on the page.
I never write
In red ink.