you walk so heavy on your feet. you are one-hundred and twenty pounds 

and your feet clonk like you have never felt gravity before. 

the ink you’ve written with has etched indents into the paper. 

even when i erase, the words are still present

and your goddamn messes each time you cook. 

the flour gets between crevices and cracks

I can’t seem to clean you, to deafen 

your presence, 

to erase

you