I try not to remember
Hey you, it's been a while.
I try not to remember you so often: I try not to remember your name, your voice, your eyes, your touch.
I try not to remember the good times: those lazy afternoons watching movies on your laptop, those sleepless nights when we (almost) lost control in your bed, those morning coffees and conversations. I try not to remember the plans we made for travelling, or for the future.
I try not to remember the things I did for you: the video calls during the late hours of the night knowing full well I needed to wake up early the next day, the chores I did in your house without you asking me to, the times I helped you care for your special needs son, the money I "lent" you without expecting payback, the payments I made in your name and the little gifts I gave you. I try not to remember your "answers" to my questions, your claims of being "emotionally unavailable" even though I became a vessel for your trauma and a balm for your wounds.
I try not to remember the day I felt like I was falling from a cliff; I try not to remember the anxiety I felt over those days and weeks of your responses becoming shorter, of your excuses becoming more frequent, and of your affection diminishing. I try not to remember my sleepless nights asking myself what I did wrong, pondering if I made an offensive remark or a bad joke, or if you had found someone that gave you what I couldn't.
I try not to remember the feeling of the dagger going through my heart when I saw your announcement of seeing someone new, and how in love you were with them after a few weeks of your silence. I try not to remember having to swallow that pain and rage and sadness and betrayal, and turn it inwards while showing a cool and relaxed face while at work. I try not to remember my feelings as I gave you the most respectful and polite farewell message I could, when all I wanted was to ask you "what was I missing? What did I do wrong? What do they have that I don't?".
I try not to remember how you pushed your way back into my life as I was working through my grief, almost as if you felt you had a claim on the map of my life: as if you had any right to return to the mess you caused and act like nothing had happened. I try not to remember you tried to use a book I lent you to get back in contact with me after your "relationship" failed and after you claimed to have been "deeply hurt" by the person you were with. I try not to remember that message, where you claimed you "missed talking to me" and assumed and claimed my silence was a punishment instead of it being time for myself. I try not to remember that call in the middle of the night knowing full well that I asked you not to contact me until our final encounter, and I try not to remember how you chose to drop off my book at a pick-up location to avoid seeing me or listening to what I had to say. I try not to remember your your need to hold the final say, and the anger I felt after you chose to dodge accountability for what you did to me.
I try not to remember what you did to me.
I try not to remember what you did for me.
I try not to remember what I pushed myself to be.
I try not to remember how little was left of me.
Yet, I remember everything.