You may feel a pinprick when you are remembered, sure, but I feel a serrated knife’s blade digging into my tender flesh every time you are thought of. I may have some gentle thoughts if I censor myself. It’s as though I’m back in the dark room from high school and instead of manipulating photographs, I’m dodging and burning my own memories. I don’t want to edit my memories, nor do I want to change the past by softening it. It is what it was, but I thought from now on, I’d be picking lace or satin, dreams or fantasies, which pillow do I like best, not resurrecting monsters.
Ghosts shouldn’t resurface unannounced. Tidal waves shouldn’t impact stones, but I never swore to be stone.