The memories hurt my stomach.
The future is fear.
The past is pain.
The present slowly ticks away
as I fight between the two realities:
walk away and forward
or stay and let it consume me.
The past is safe.
Will I ever relax again
if I leave?
Will I ever be calm?
How can I be?
I can’t pretend that nothing’s
changed.
We’re not the same people
despite how badly I want everything
to be frozen in time.
I’m living a dream, a memory.
I’m afraid to be put under
anesthesia.
There’s that small panic
that I might never wake up.
We know the ending of our stories.
But we panic, refuse to accept.
The same way I refuse to accept
that the people from my memories
have changed.