Sometimes, we don’t remember.
Sometimes, I think I remember, but at the same time it’s not like a real memory.
I wrote things in my journal I don’t remember.
I wrote these things, but I don’t feel anything.
I don’t feel like they are true memories.
Yet, somehow I know they are.
I feel that I can’t address it head on, because it doesn’t feel real.
I don’t even know if I’m right about what happened, or who.
I was too little to comprehend, so I went within to hide.