Maybe if I could write my words in the wet sand at the beach, carving out my heart, then letting the tide wash it all away. Maybe that would work. Maybe. But I don't live near the ocean, and I can't get there soon enough to try this experiment while I need release. I'd love to set my heart on a month-long sabbatical to the seaside, but that's an option for people who aren't me. So I must be contented with writing letters that go in the garbage and writing poems that hide until I feel brave enough to cut my heart out with my own words. I must be content with erasure.