Sometimes, we don’t remember.

Can’t remember.

Won’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.

Can’t remember.

Won’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.