I don’t forget things;
I just can’t remember them.

The empty spot in my mind
holds my heart
and squeezes it dry,
as if the blood could fill it.

I can look at a page
I thought I’d never read
and know for sure
I’ve read it before.

But I don’t remember it.

My mind has purged
three years of my life
and then some.

But it’s not done.

It keeps stealing,
only giving back in pieces
that stab with sharp edges
into the gaps that remain.

I cannot remember
why I cannot remember
the things I remember.

Does that make sense?

Does it make any sense at all?


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