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.