Poetry

120. memory is a prison

memory is a prison_ph

*

I want to hold your brain in my two bare hands and make you flex in ways you didn’t think possible, electrically keeping you alive with this sheer awful longing I have for you.

I want to pass my fingers over the sleek surface of that innermost part where,
somewhere amidst the crevices,
my memory crouches like a difficultly repressed monster from your worst childhood nightmare.
I would like to snatch it from that God forsaken place
and pull it out into the air,
for you to see what a splendid chaos I have
caused inside your head.

And you…
maybe then,
you would be insane enough
to understand me.

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One thought on “120. memory is a prison

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