This is an Erasure

I pull the past out root and stem,
fingers bloodied by the clutch of its insistence.
No relic is spared—
not the marrow that whispered obedience,
not the breath that still carried its name.

Every tether is cut.
Every shadow excised.
I do not catalogue the loss;
I salt the earth where it once stood,
let silence swallow the echoes whole.

It is not absence I worship—
but the clarity after.
Light finds me in the hollow spaces,
sliding into the raw seams
where old bone once ached.

I thrive in the dismantling.
I flourish in the undoing.
What you call ruin,
I call bloom.

For even in the violence of removal,
there is grace—
a radiance born not of what endures,
but of what no longer binds.

This is an erasure.
And in it,
I am remade.

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