Jun 18, 2015
When she asked me Why it hurt to look at my reflection Or to open up about being closed I said, “It’s a long story And I don’t feel like telling it.” But in reality, It’s more of a pamphlet Than a novel. And most of the illustrations Are smeared with tears; Years of failed forgetting. My young, bold declarations In the early pages Have slowly been reduced To scribbles in the margin. And I want to reply back: Why ask? What is the past Besides compiled failure? (Except for the happy people Who carry more pleasure than regret: Their memories are a bastion.) But she is a simple girl; lucky To not know the burdensome weight Of unforgettable thoughts. So I just try to smile with my eyes And I reply, “I’ll tell you about it later.”
