Memory visited me when I was five,
and I was on my knees.
I begged him to take the hour.
He said he would only take a year.
I said do it, take it away.
He said he had conditions.
He could take my memory,
would replace it with a door
I could open when I was older,
though I wouldn’t know what was behind it.
The longer I left it, the more blocked it’d be;
the more rust would flourish,
the more the wild would overgrow it.
He said he’d have to take everything,
rip out the root. Every giggle,
smile, kind word would be payment
and I’d never get them back.
If I remembered, I’d only remember this,
and the hurt would be as fresh
as it is now. I said, please.
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