we used to have typewriter erasers — like pencils but instead of lead, they had erasers built into their bodies, and their erasers were stiff brushes. but no matter how much you rubbed and brushed, you could make out the faint memory of typing, until you rubbed the paper to a hole, like rubbing your skin off, desperate to strip away those indelible stains.
you canʻt unwrite them. the things that happened to you, the things done to you. you canʻt unwrite them no matter how much you try to rewrite, overwrite them, theyʻre always there, lurking, in the fibers of the paper, in the fibers of your memory, in the fibers of your soul. theyʻre not fading ghost images like a photo flash. no, those memories are real ghosts, waiting for you, ready to jump at you, ready to jump you. theyʻre ready to leap from the strangers, the friends, the lovers, from familiar places, familiar faces. they leap from the new, the unknown, they turn the fragrance of hope to the stench of fear.
they are imprinted on your soul, and no matter how much you try to rub it out, you can always make out the faint memory, typed on you, until you rub your soul to a hole, like rubbing your skin off, desperate to strip away those indelible stains.
except that you canʻt rub enough skin away to erase them.
maybe only the dark night can do that.