Tip of My Tongue—a story of repression and remembrance

Every single thing I’ve ever known is just barely stuck at the tip of my tongue
Three years of shoving a body’s worst tragedy
Into the dusty boxes at the back of a cobwebbed cluttered room
Can do that to a person’s mind

It meant three years of telling and retelling the same several stories to the same several people,
Sounding tired and trite to everyone but myself
Because I didn’t think anyone had ever heard them before

It meant three years of being unable
To return my mind into my body
But forgetting how I had ever left it in the first place

It meant three years of hypersensitivity to middle names and birthdays and best friends’ favorite songs
But not having any sensitivity as to whether I’d eaten or drank anything all day

It meant headaches and heartaches and crying and trying so,
so hard to understand what had made me this way

It meant vacant-eyed stares where there should have been velvet, it meant fully-forgotten dreams and half-remembered nightmares, it meant that goodbyes always hurt so much more than they should have

And that hellos never held enough meaning

And it meant
When I finally opened that box,
Cobweb-coated and three years sealed,
That an inability to remember
Turned into a wild desire to forget

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