i.
trying to erase
that which has already
been erased and written over.
imprint on imprint on imprint
of text erased,
new words laid out
deemed inadequate and
erased again;
the ever changing story
persistently over traces
left from before.
it cannot be the same
as a copy, or written on a
fresh surface.
the black lines,
bumpy,
form meaning in excess
of the literal form.
i am never new.
i am never old.
i am always becoming.
ii.
bodies have been here before.
i’ve tried to forget them
and cling to them and
leave them behind
but they fade, and they stay.
when new bodies come along,
the imprint left on my body
from others who came and left
can be fingered, traced,
followed, avoided,
a treaded pathway,
a treasure map,
a detour route.
my body.
and this body,
yours,
will you last? will it last?
will you fade? will it fade?
have you felt the grooves you’ve created?
your fingers carefully tracing
over and over lest they forget;
lips impress my tingling skin
greedily.
have you felt the old residual traces fade
as you forge through, around, beyond them?
exploring outside the lines created,
testing neglected parts and
deepening others passionately,
or tenderly.
what curiosity guides your drawing?
what desire?
what will your body make, on mine?
iii.
childhood
routine
over
and over
the same
routines
trace over
and over
darken
deepen
survival
dependence
growing
stifled
unplanned
etchings
from writing
the story
over
and over
erasing
rewriting
won’t alter
the sequence
subtle
it lingers
following
controlling
routines
no longer
make sense
yet play over
survival
dependence…
adapting
growing.
iv.
palimpsest: when you can't really get rid of the traces left from your past yet are attempting to write a new story over them. the lingering hints of text on your body, trauma. the parts you simultaneously erased but which give you strength, resilience. resilience and trauma written into the same story of your childhood, which then made so much sense. and now you have worked so hard to erase the past, without even meaning to. but traces are left. connected. and the story you’re writing cannot be written without working with those hints, connecting those smudges left from surviving and growing in order to understand what they mean, and what to do with them. making sure to carefully follow the grooves left on your body as it moves and hurts in ways you have never understood. a book. your body. learning that you can’t just erase and write over the beginning. it’s not something you can ignore, but it’s also not something to be tossed out. it got you through, even though it hurts you. it also keeps you alive. those lingering dots of the i and tails of the y and dashes, ellipses, and so many question marks – they are you. you are past them. but they are not simply in the past. attend to them. learn them. love them. connect them with your story. heal them. water them with your tears. nourish them with your laughter. they are you.