The amount of eraser shavings I have tucked away in my night stand could fill up twelve pencil boxes.
Words have been erasing from my paper like hunters beating down trails for homeless, bony foxes.
And I'm afraid of all the words that I'm going to forget as I'm running blind, straight ahead.
My unclipped claws are scratching the dirt in a race that won't settle anything- that won't lay the hunters to bed.
The night couldn't get anymore viscous as it calls in the boisterous wind to erase everything that I have to say like a merciless king.
The hunters don't know there is no pack leader, that I'm alone, and the tracks I leave behind are the words that sting.
I've lost sight of my pages in this cold, lightless wood; rendered breathless and afraid.
I'm trying to speak, but all that's coming out of my mouth are eraser shavings and the hunters have already took their first bullet to invade.
So, the drawer beside my cold bed is composed of red, crumbled pieces of rubber full of words I'll never know.
As I lay beneath the menacing branches, waiting for the hunters to pass, I watch with crackling, shaking bones everything
that was once a friend to me, dissolve like white snow.
