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The lore of Erasure
<p>I met a man once.</p><p>This man was the epitome.</p><p>He made beauty bow its head in a debt of false respect.</p><p>He bent the rules I lived by, and blurred the lines I drew.</p><p>He made falling easy.</p><p>And foolishly, without tripping, without stalling, </p><p>I made a masterpiece of my fall.</p><p><br/></p><p>I met a man once.</p><p>He painted me a picture.</p><p>Inscribed my initials on the skin of his hands,</p><p>and pinned my polaroids to every bedroom wall.</p><p>I felt cherished...Until<span style="background-color: transparent;"> I saw the hanging nails,</span></p><p>where other portraits used to stay.</p><p><br/></p><p>This man I met once who sucked the life from me, <span style="background-color: transparent;">drinking my joy like communion until wells ran dry.</span></p><p>He curated my thoughts, convinced me I was “work,” someone<span style="background-color: transparent;"> who had to earn the right to be shown, understanding that I performed </span><span style="background-color: transparent;">my worth for an audience of one, always failing the final audition.</span></p><p>He made me parade in a battle of restraint,</p><p>waiting for him to finally declare his love.</p><p>Just simple me, loving him,</p><p>swept up in the angst of an older love.</p><p><br/></p><p>So I bound my exuberance, curtailed my wildness,</p><p>and slipped on the cloak- <span style="background-color: transparent;">a darker version of myself even I hadn’t worn.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: transparent;"><br/></span></p><p><span style="background-color: transparent;"><strong>I fell victim to the lore of loving in the dark</strong>.</span></p><p><br/></p><p>My mother’s Sunday sermons spoke of being</p><p>“the light of the world,”</p><p>but I faded in illumination,</p><p>trading my light to be seen in his dark.</p><p><br/></p><p>My memory redacted every other affection.</p><p>So as he crafted, I bent.</p><p>When he remoulded, I willingly broke—</p><p>beating and purging.</p><p><br/></p><p>I met a man once who changed who I was.</p><p>Now when I try to remember her,</p><p>she feels like one of the portraits</p><p>he took down.</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p><p><em>The most dangerous kind of person is the one who makes you feel like an unfinished project they are 'kind' enough to fix.</em></p><p><em> - Anonymous</em></p>
The lore of Erasure
By
Eyitoluwase Soyinka
•
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Eyitoluwase Soyinka
•
13 plays
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