When I was a child my mother taught  like a dry wipe pen on a board of melamine
Nothing is permanent
But she never warned me
That not all pens can be rubbed off white boards
She didn’t teach me that no matter how much you scrub
There is always a stain on the board that can’t be removed
A black smudge that is permanently etched onto the white surface
She left out the part where someone would leave a black smudge on my life
That can be written over, but never be unseen
It took me a while to figure out,
The only thing permanent in life, are the memories that I am stained with.