You wrote your name on my
white sand beach,
my ****** page -
eight by eleven
stranger to the (press) -
in a white wax crayon.

There are times when I forget you're there
(in white on my white page)
and the pads of my fingertips
flit across its surface
until they
skid, stunting, across your signature.

(But it gets worse)
because I'm surrounded by brilliant colors -
blue violets, crimson fields
but when I dip my (proverbial) brush
and attempt to stain my
****** white page -
the color seeps around your seal,
but never over (it's never over).

They highlight your stifling presence
on my page
with how inherently not you they are.
And I wish I could scratch you out
(without) ripping my white, now crimson,
page.

Everyone else is the water color to your crayola.