Prose + Erasure Poem

I decided to do something a little different. I haven’t really tried this before. Taking a piece and making a poem out of it. Well, there’s a first for everything. This one is erasure poem.

_{Erasure is a form of found poetry or found object art created by erasing words from an existing text in prose or verse and framing the result on the page as a poem. The results can be allowed to stand in situ or they can be arranged into lines and/or stanzas}

_{Erasure poetry is created by erasing words from an existing text in prose or verse and arranging the new text into lines and/or stanzas.}

The piece is a flash fiction I wrote some time ago. Do enjoy!

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It was only a routine. At least that was what it had become. Everyday she would wake, shower and dress. It was hard the first few weeks. She would cry herself to sleep after each episode. But as time passed, she had discovered there wasn’t a time for tears. She began to see it as a job. They had given her a room after her first month. She was lucky according to the other girls. They usually kept three or four girls in one room. The space was tiny and empty save for the narrow bed by the side and a mirror hung loosely on the wall. The peeling paint and the open ceiling were the only decorations. She never allowed herself to think about it. She didn’t own anything anyway. They provided a dress for her each day. Time after time, halfway through getting dressed, she would pause and think about choking herself to death with the clothes, or making a rope with it. The decaying woods of the ceiling would serve as a perfect executioner. She had stared hard at the tiny razor blade in her hands while she was shaving the other day, imagining how swift and dull the pain would be. But she had remembered, just like every other time, her three year old son, the reason she had agreed to this life in the first place, the one person she loved and had to keep providing for, an like every other time, the thought had stopped her as well. She would continue to provide physical satisfaction for both men and women alike, and moan in fake ecstasy for their pleasure, till her son became old enough to care for himself.

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everyday she would wake
to tiny, empty
narrow bed by the side
and a mirror
hung loosely on the wall

the peeling paint
the decaying ceiling
she never think about it
halfway through getting dressed
time after time

she had stared at the razor
imagining how dull the pain would be
the thought of her son had stopped her
she would continue to moan in fake ecstasy
till he’s old enough

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I’m not sure how this is. Do tell me what you think.

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