Whiteboard

Everything is gone and there is no way to get it back exactly the way it was before. There is still a trace of all of it left behind on my skin, in my mind, on my heart. The only way to wipe the slate clean is to wash it out by the rain in the spray bottle, but how am I supposed to make the weather when I cannot even create happiness from something good in the past? I’m only here for others to write on and to get up and leave after affecting me. It is the only way of life that I know. The words you spoke, you wrote, they stained my heart and now you’re gone - never coming to claim them; although I wish you would. Allow me to create the happiness every human craves and then come back to me. I promise, I won’t hold a grudge; I’ll learn to create that rain of a spray bottle and give us a clean slate. The rain will take some time to dry, but we can learn how new we are, how different we have become. Your ink will glide down my front and we will see that this will be difficult for the both of us to be new, but virtually the same. From the outside, you are just a marker, losing a little of yourself every time you write. You are close to dying. I am just a whiteboard who is unwilling to retain your mistakes, but all too willing to relearn you every time.

Over and over again.