The Art of Forgetting

Another passing word, 

Another passing glance 

That twists my insides 

And grips its cold hands 

On my butterfly heart. 

My mouth stays closed, 

Gulping sighs paired 

With darting eyes, 

But I push it down 

And try my best to forget. 

Each day I hit repeat 

On the day I lived before, 

The same routine of 

Listening and forgetting. 

But sometimes, 

On the rarest of days, 

The remembering bubbles up, 

Until it rises from my throat, 

And I do what I fear the most: 

I speak out. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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