I.

i believe that writing is permanent.
that the way the words string together
were meant to preserve for anyone
to return and to reflect as they please.
i wrote to cherish.
to mourn.
to love.
to remember.
to display.
to sympathize.


II.
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i wrote so much that the memories
clustered together,
that they balled up and compounded,
where they became a conglomeration
of everything beautiful
and everything i despised.

staring it in the eye
was facing my past,
my mistakes,
and i wore them
as if they were badges and labels,
meant to point myself out to the world
as the scared child,
the crazed animal,
a gentle lover,
and the outraged survivor.
i had to live within confines
and remember myself
as how i defined myself.

III.

i believed writing was sanct,
that it was a holy shrine
that i turned to daily.
i kissed her blessed grounds
with cracked and bleeding lips,
watered her soils with tears,
and left trails of myself
along her stairs.
i prayed and prayed for salvation,
and she gave me forgiveness,
written in smudges and strokes
across white pages
and left to gather dust in old books.
she gave me exactly what i wanted,
listened unconditionally,
and let me leave
feeling lighter than before.

IV.

i realized writing is a living document,
where i can take the pen
and scratch out the memories i don't like.
the beautiful became tainted with time,
old carnations rotting and stinking
in beaming sunbeams,
lips turning blue in the rain,
and laughing in old abandoned barns.

V.

it is my right to remember
and it is my right to forget.