What Can't You Remember

Rhyming with meaning, you have to read it to understand.

 

What Can’t You Remember

 

I can’t remember what it’s like to wake up with a smile on my face for no particular reason. I can’t remember what it’s like to live in a daydream because I have nothing else on my mind. I can’t remember what it’s like to be carefree and completely disconnected from reality. I can’t remember what it’s like to randomly assemble all of my stuffed animal friends in a circle so that I may serve them tea. I cannot remember these things.

 

Oh, I remember lots of things, but these are not they. I remember pain and pleasure. I remember pressure. I remember the freedom that keeps you chained. I remember my name.

 

I can’t remember what it’s like to wake up, go outside and lie in a wading pool listening to The Princess Bride soundtrack. I can’t remember why it was so fun to step on a sidewalk crack. I can’t remember why the ceiling in my bedroom was so interesting. I can’t remember why I started watching wrestling.

 

Oh, I remember lots of things, but these are not they. I remember rain and storm clouds. I remember keeping inside all of my screaming aloud. I remember flesh, it may not have been phenomenal, but it was my personal best. I remember being undressed. I remember my breasts.

 

I can’t remember reading books for pleasure, as if they were a treasure while hiding with a flashlight because it was bedtime and night. I can’t remember playing house under the stairs in front of an audience of my peers. I can’t remember imaginary friends. I can’t remember how Thundercats ends.

 

Oh, I remember lots of things, but these are not they. I remember twists and bends. I remember frayed ends of sanity. I remember semi-trucks. I remember bad luck. I remember wanting eyes, broken ties, lies and good-byes. I remember eating French fries in McDonalds the other day with a 16-year old superhero. I remember my ground zero.

 

I can’t remember the lines on my grandmother’s face. I can’t remember what it was like to be in her embrace. I can’t remember the smell of my first bedroom. I can’t remember the sense of doom that accompanies cleaning my room. I can’t remember my first best friend. I can’t remember parts of last weekend, but for a different reason. I can’t remember making construction paper snowmen. I can’t remember the end.

 

Oh, I remember lots of things, but these are not they. I remember when I cut off my hair. I remember many incidents involving my underwear. I remember being stepped on for a year. I remember being in love. I remember being stung in the eye because I punted a football into a beehive. I remember mass confusion, mild contusion and bowties. I remember getting to see Antler speak. I remember kissing your cheek and hating the color pink and all of the dishes piled up in my sink starting to stink. I remember being bleak.

 

I can’t remember how bad it hurt. I can’t remember what it’s like putting myself first. I can’t remember my birth. I can’t remember you stealing every breath. I can’t remember doing meth, probably because I never have. I can’t remember auctioning my love to the highest bid. I can’t remember feeling like a little kid atop a roller coaster about to fall. I can’t remember my last visit to the shopping mall. I can’t remember the last time I had an electric charge. I can’t remember playing on the swings in my back yard. I can’t remember why I made so many bad choices. I can’t remember certain people’s voices. I can’t remember my heart’s desire. I can’t remember what I need to be inspired. I can’t remember rotating my tires. I can’t remember being a liar, was I?

 

Oh, I remember lots of things, but these are not they. I remember how to sing, I remember spring and budding flowers floating atop steamy showers in the bathroom at home. I remember people’s scents. I remember to pay my rent. I remember my heart because it beats in my chest. I remember to give it all a rest. I remember teriyaki meatballs and late night phone calls. I remember a longing face accompanied by a midnight embrace. I remember how to say grace. I remember the urchins we call the human race. I remember my face. I remember wanting a storybook love as some divine gift from above. I remember love. I really remember love. Memory is such a strangely torturous thing. Tell me, what can’t you remember?

 

Reviews

[Electric Green Earth Ch..]

This is amazing.