I have erased you.

Like a smudge on my paper.

Because you are

                           distracting,

because you are

                           unnecessary.

I have blotted you out,

because you are loud,

and you are giving me a headache.

I have more important things to deal with

than the likes

of you,

           metaphorical ink blot.

Your memory must die, be downed in the carbolic soap

I use to soak my brain;

to wash it of your face, your laugh, your stories.

You will fade.

You must fade.

I’m tired,

and I’ve finally listened

       to myself.

I have erased you, because you are a mistake.