Dazed Off

my what?

I read my poems over and over again,
drown myself to the words I used to call you–
to the phrases I used to describe you

I burnt ashes of past flames of love
and now only a clogged up sink bath stays

sometimes I do forget the trauma
and I'm glad I have this scar,
these poetry slams I couldn't show you..
because it wouldn't reach you

so now, here in me, it stays,
so much pain it stays
like the last petal of a fucked-up flower
after asking, "forget me?
forget me not?"

but maybe I really did forget you
because I write letters everyday
and it's filled with blurred sketches
of the aj I used to remember
I used to remember calling you
what was it again?

A/N
im afraid I might still love him
because I don't
but I'm afraid I do
maybe it's my mind acting up again