I scribbled over his name.
It shined bright in relief,
the first ink blot having penetrated fibres deep
deep into that virgin page, and begun there to age.
I boxed his things, clipped him out of images, and
would have erased him with rubber at every turn
like the rogue tried to erase in totality my identity;
But that energy wasted only made me angry. Somehow,
in time, when touched I will not feel him, nor
unbury how his hate pronounced itself in scars.
I will not wonder why I could not stimulate his love.
Love is in the eyes of our children, if I level
Love is the richness in the void.
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