SHARPIE

we write all these things in black sharpie/thinking they might carry more meaning/their thick black lines scrawl across the page/and the countertop beneath repeats what each word says/cause it bleeds through/like a band-aid on a severe head wound./when you read, you have to believe/these fat-walled words you can from afar yet still see./my fingers are stained with ink/and no matter how much I wash this damned spot,/it won't shrink,/and like Ms. MacBeth, I'm a bit concerned,you might say I'm about ready to freak,/but forgiveness is written on the page and has/bled onto the counter beside this kitchen sink.