In a world filled with harsh words
and endless criticism,
I thought people would be my greatest burden.
I was wrong.
It was my own memory.
Of everything that has ever wounded me,
nothing has stayed more faithful than my memories.
They never remember to forget
the things I spend every day trying to leave behind.
Instead, they preserve them
as though pain deserves to be archived.
The conversations I wish were never spoken…
The words I wish had died the moment they left your lips…
The promises that sounded so beautiful
before they became another reason to stop believing…
My memory keeps them all alive.
Yet somehow,
it forgets the laughter.
It forgets the mornings that felt light.
It forgets the moments I smiled without thinking.
It lets joy fade into the distance
while sorrow settles comfortably within me,
as though grief has earned a permanent home.
How unfair it is…
That the heart can survive a wound,
but the mind insists on reopening it.
How cruel it is…
That I can forget a hundred reasons to smile,
yet remember every sentence that made me cry.
Sometimes I wonder
if memories have a heart of their own.
Because mine seems to choose pain
over peace.
It gathers every tear,
every goodbye,
every disappointment,
and whispers them back to me
when the night grows quiet.
I wish my memory loved me enough
to let me rest.
I wish it knew that healing
is not only about moving forward,
but also about having the mercy
to let certain moments die.
Because not every memory deserves eternity.
Some deserve silence.
Some deserve burial.
Some deserve to be forgotten
without guilt,
without regret,
without ever looking back.
Until that day comes,
I will keep teaching my heart
what my memory has yet to learn—
that the past may have shaped me,
but it does not deserve
to live inside me forever.