I think you found your name at the center and top line of this page

And as much as you loved being the subject

You would not bare (bear) that I wrote it.

So you’ve been erasing yourself,

Fervently rubbing away your name

To remove it from under my hand

From the words that were mine and are now yours.

You also might love the content

The words might move you but you won’t let them have you

You might even hope they will form you as a portrait

Of your most ideal self that you are saving for someone else

And then we come to my name, my signature

The part you cannot fully ignore and aren’t entirely sure what to do with

You fold the page over my name so you don’t see it

But you won’t remove it

It’s the last vestige of me that protects you 

from feeling like you crushed me

or ruined my name to those closest to you.

You can look at me favorably and say I was sweet or well intentioned

But someone you could not like enough,

The one you will fondly return to one day in your poor memory

And tell your children about how I loved you and you, in order to

Continue to preserve a version of you I never fully knew,

Will leave out how you all but murdered me from existence.

That’s the crime of poetry

For every one I’ve written for you, 

there’s a stack of blank notes left for me

And a string of convenient half-truths

That the ones who’ve never read me have only heard.

*Authors Note- A Poem about being erased from someone’s life.

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