Sharp. A streak of white trailing its way into
my inner soul. Putrid. Sour. The bottom of a
porcelain lid, wiping the brown smudge, the red
of a woman’s pain, the smallest of life’s creatures.

Cleanliness. They say. Fresh spring. They say.
Whatever label they place on the bottle, nothing
can erase the facts. It’s rotten. Vile. It’s an eraser,
putting a pretty shine on an object’s history.
Removing its very being. The trail lingers.
It spreads like a poison, inflicting its warning
to whoever’s watching the path. An eraser
is only useful until it’s erasing you.