Ink dribbles from the end of my pen in thick black drops;
Drips down into my lap and stains my skirt,
Seeping through the velvet fabric onto my skin.
I can feel it burrowing through into my veins,
Joining with my blood and turning delicate blue veins black as night.
It courses through every artery and organ, staining them with its bitter color.
The ink is alive.
The ink is alive inside me.
I can feel it in my fingertips as I write my grocery list;
In the whites of my eyes reading my favorite novels;
And in my pores as I brush elbows with a friend.
It trickles into my ear canals as I listen to impassioned music.
It thrashes with rage in my stomach when I wonder what sort of sick parasite ink is.
I feel it stir in the back of my neck as I write this account,
Tracing meaningless, beautiful words against my skull.