Doing

Here’s a torn page among the waste.

I smoother its egg-shell skin, and
It invites me to desecrate its surface.

My pen is dry, the pencil broken,
No sharpener.

I bite my nails, sharpen it.
I scratch my skin, dig a fountain of blood.

With my nails on the torn page,
I write. My name.

To give the page a reason for its existence.
To give me a reason.

We both pollute the world.