A number I know well
I counted you off a million times
I kept you in my brain
Cupped you in my palms with such care
I know you, perhaps better than I know myself
931-538-9092
And you are familiar
I find I can't remember my new number
Can't live this new life because it's so close to forgetfulness
And I can't forget
You know that, right?
I mean, we were given the option to forgive him, weren't we?
He forgets every day
He yells
He hurts
He kills
He forgets
So what binds us to those memories?
Why are they inscribed in our skin?
If we are victim, why do we still suffer while a killer walks free?
Why does our heart race when we hear whistling, muscles flinch when he walks past, tongue stutter when forced to form "father"?
And why, when given any number of stupid things to cling to, did I chose you?
Here's a secret.
Sometimes, I call you and listen to the beeping. "Caller disconnected". I sync the ringing up to my heart because "Caller disconnected" can only mean that I have moved on. That I am still alive, still breathing. I am still living my life to the best of my ability because
he
has
not
won
Not yet, at least.
YOU ARE READING
Please, Disregard
PuisiAn untold story from a misplaced generation, this is teen angst at its finest. These the writings of The Suicide Notebook, or how I'd imagine them to be. It's mostly going to be in poetry form, slam or rhyming. Keep in mind that slam poetry sounds a...
