The mark is red,
It sinks into my soul.
How could she do such a thing?
Tainting my work with her bloody red.
The crisp white sheet written with love.
Each word careful, concise.
I painstakingly wrote, each tiny word
For days on end, it had to be perfect.
The nicest pen, on the best paper,
No smudges or marks.
Yet here it is, now with me.
And the ugly red line
She put it under a word, with a question mark.
The word of my soul, so easily ruined.
It had to be perfect.