The First Verse

I wrote my perfect verse
in black ink, scribbled it all
onto a sheet of paper on a
bathroom sink and sank
against the wall to watch it grow.
And as the words flowed over
me, meandering freely in ink
across the page, I saw them
glow splendidly.
The letters spread and
twisted together and
pressed against one another,
growing larger, the color turning
darker, more like the letters
I refused to use.
I vomited my victims
into the sink and down the drain,
terrified of seeing them and of
them seeing the verse I created,
so perfect and pale.
But still the letters expanded,
exhausting the white of the page,
growing ever blacker beneath
my fingertips like their
venomous counterparts, the more
poisonous members of
the alphabet.

Hunched over the sink,
my stomach hurled up
the foulest disease, tossing it
down the drain where
it festered and grew,
black and bruising and dangerous,
and expanded up and out and
into the bowl, over the rim
and onto the floor where
I had let my verse lay.

Lost and drowned in a
venomous blackness, my verse
had become poisonous. And so
I took my page and
turned it over, set it on
the sink,
furrowed my brow and there
I wrote my perfect verse.