I chose to draw you,
pressing hard, etched into paper—
so hard, my hand panged with aches
from the pressure.
Thick, bold lines which accented
those curious eyes
and long, wide strokes for
such smooth dark skin.
My representation so detailed,
I could almost feel you there
on the page.
Anyone could see—
there was love in those contours,
and hope in those highlights;
a pitied soul captured between hand and eye.
You were some version of the
******* Mona Lisa,
belonging to no one and everyone
all at once.
My furiously hated favorite,
hanging high and unfinished
for the world to see.

Understand me when I say
I had to press just as hard to erase
every inch of it.
With swollen knuckles
and blistered palms,
I didn’t blink until it was gone.
I refused to exhale until
there wasn’t anything left
except a few piles of dust
and a faint outline
of a subject that craved
but couldn’t stand
to be the object
of anyone’s admiration.