Chalkboard

At first it didn't hurt, 

it was like wiping the slateboard clean.   

All the horrific equations,

trying to convert myself with an angry dude

the steep disconnects,

rubbed right off that board.

All the crossed out parts of myself, 

and big Xs over who I am,

unreplenished,

all that mess,

gone. 

There it was, my blank beautiful chalkboard staring back at me.

But these days there's chalk on my hands.  

The hastened bits of me offered  

to the empty board.   

The chalkiness returning,

where I wrote myself into that relationship,

connecting dislocated dots with bad bridges,

making ropes on the board to save from cliffs, 

clenching that chalk in my hand.

I thought my hands had touched it,

some big un-handcuffed love.

I thought my chalky trails were needed,

where I underlined the best,

where I preserved. 

I wiped it clean with my hands

but now the bits keep getting on the clothes,

around my sleeves, 

all over my lap.

But this is how the horror spreads, 

the memory in the creases