The memories.
God, the memories,
instead of drinking them you're drowning in them.
You're suffocating,
it's like a poison through your nostrils,
down to your throat.
Some people see them in scenes, pictures, and slideshows.
But you see them in colors, flash in your mind's eye.
They used to be so pretty.
There was purple, the color of passion.
Yellow, the color of joy.
Green, for hope; and Blue, for peace.
The whole rainbow is splayed out in your slot of memories.
Now they're all gray.
Different shades, dull, stamped with loss.
Why do they have to come back?
Why can't they leave you alone?
You hate it when the cold hands grasp around your throat again.
You hate it,
You hate it when the memories hit you.
— memoria.
YOU ARE READING
An ako Mirasol
PoetryReal life isn't neatly divided into a sequence of stories where each one has definite end. So, the question of whether or not real life has happy endings is moot. It really just depends... which moment you want to call it "endings".