erasing feelings

Words have been erased. I write so much, but then I throw them away because I feel thrown away. I don't want all the pain of today to stick. I want to write but not be reminded of how I have felt. Having a space to write and be reminded here has taught me that I am most certainly reminded. I have laced each poem and memoir bite with a pretty poison to either hurt or delight. I have a stack of journals from over the years that hold pain and tears and happy times intermingled. I have sheets and sheets of email letters. I know about being reminded by what I choose to write—and keep. 

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.