Red Ink Fever

I can’t even type 'to whom it may concern'

without seeing the ghost of her pen.

She used to bleed all over my pages

and make me start the story again.

'Unclear,' she wrote in the margin,

a tight, sharp cursive of hate.

She took the joy of a long sentence

and left it dying at the gate.

I saw a red pen leak in my bag today,

a pool of bright, chemical stain.

It looked like all the things I didn't say

because I was scared of the pain.