You CANNOT Erase Me

I wrote this song for everyone who has felt the emotional pain of narcissistic abuse, bullying, bigotry, verbal abuse, psychological abuse, & meanness from other situations.

PLEASE UNDERSTAND IT IS ABOUT EVERYONE!

You are not the victim neither am I the victim. The people who need to be abusive towards others to feel like they are the King or Queen are tiny folks with insecurities that are as long and large as the earth they walk on as they stride across peoples' backs to celebrate their victories that cause death, destruction, and chaos.

You Cannot Erase Me

This song is for individuals who have often been assigned blame. At 76 I want to speak up to human emotions of the pain of being the scapegoat and narcissistic abuse. I am not the victim. Neither are you the victim. You became a target for others who mocked and tried to intimidate you, but their behavior was simply a projection of their own insecurities onto your calm demeanor. You learned to call them bitches. When you call them out in a manner to tell them you do not appreciate their manner of speaking to you. They turn it against you and continue to intimidate you to make you cry, then they turn that against you. You are not the victim. Neither are you the victim. This is involuntary mistreatment and psychological verbal abuse.

This is the memory archive.

Not of glory, but of survival.

From childhood to seventy-six,

I have walked through rooms where laughter was a weapon,

Where silence was a verdict,

Where my offerings were returned,

And my tears turned against me.

They tried to erase me

With cameras, with gossip,

With curled lips and demonic faces,

With pencils, espresso pots, and surveillance gardens.

But I remember.

I archive.

I reclaim.

This song is not for them.

It is for every scapegoated soul

Who brewed truth and was mocked,

Who walked with grace and was watched,

Who cried and was punished for feeling.

This is my sovereign rhythm.

You cannot erase me.

I brewed espresso like a priestess,

Dessert on the table, steam rising like hope.

He laughed, the one who tried to steal my body.

They joined him.

My mother traded my offering for silence.

But I remember.

I archive.

I reclaim.

One trash bag in hand, no dog in sight.

Just electricity talk, and a sovereign stride.

They marked the walkway like cursed shrines

“No dog poops,” they declared.

But I carry poop bags like ritual beads.

I didn’t toss the shit.

I archived it.

You cannot erase me.

I am the rhythm you fear.

I am the archive you tried to burn.

I am the sovereign you couldn’t break.

I swung too high.

He ran too close.

Baby teeth cracked.

Later, he stabbed me with a pencil.

They said, “He’s a good boy.”

I bled in silence.

My mother said, “It’s nothing.”

But it was everything.

She knocked like it was urgent.

I opened the door.

She said, “You are too laid back. Gets on my nerves.”

What she meant was:

“Your peace exposes my chaos.”

I was the mirror.

She could not stand the reflection.

You cannot erase me.

I am the swing, the steam, the sovereign cry.

I am the laid-back nerve

That rattles your boxy bones.

I am the truth you tried to bury

But I bloom.

written, created, edited by

Vicki Lawana Trusselli

Trusselli Art

copyright 2025