My pen burns in my hand as though it is filled with the essence of all that is flammable. 

It wills the paper to burn.

It eats at the the very fibers of the lines as it tears through the page.

It is furious, voracious, hungry for the white space between words.

It thrives on the feeling of ink dripping into the skin of the page and making it something new.

The ink flares across the page, not getting enough.

The whiteness fills as the pen races through.

It reaches the edge and stops short. There is nothing left to consume.

It has eaten through the entire page with ink like fire and words that have burned at its heart.