Bipolar Memory.

 


I forget things

that should have stayed.


Names.

Words I once held like glass.

Entire versions of myself

I can’t quite reach anymore.


Sometimes I read my own poems

like they were written

by someone I used to love or hate.

And maybe they were.


But memory isn’t gone.

It waits.

Locked.


A smell.

A song.

A feeling sharp enough

to split the surface.


And suddenly

everything comes back

too much

too loud

too alive.


So which one is mercy?

To forget

and walk lighter

through a life you barely recognize


or to remember

and carry it all

like a body

that never learned

how to rest?


I have lived both.


The highs that burn

like I am more than human

untouchable, unstoppable,

a mind racing ahead of time.


The lows

gravity remembering me

all at once.


Dragging me down

into something small.

Something tired.

Something afraid

to exist.


They say memory is power.

But what kind of power

comes with no control?

What good is remembering

if I can’t stop

what comes next?


So I wonder

is forgetting

a wound 

or a shield?


And if I remember

just enough,


just enough

to see it coming

will I survive it better…

or just suffer it twice?


My body keeps score

in ways my mind cannot hold.


Each cycle

leaves something behind


weight,

fatigue,

a nerve that doesn’t quite listen anymore,

a rhythm that no longer trusts itself.


How much can a body take

before it stops calling this survival?


So maybe the question

was never

whether I am broken

or strong


Maybe it’s this

how much a human can hold

before it becomes

something else

and still calls it

a life.




Coraline.

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