In primary school I learned the origin story of the forget-me-not,
a flower so small it cried out to be remembered and was named as such,
the forget-me-not,
ironically forgotten a lot.
Not romantic like roses nor symbolic like lilies,
not rare like orchids nor poison like ivy,
but some still remember and some still notice,
even if others prefer a marigold or lotus.
I always noticed
the forget-me-note
that dotted our gardens on Irish mountains
that smiled up at me during my first kiss on a camp site
that were ****** toward me in the balled fist of a boy who said he loved me,
at thirteen,
my first ever flowers.

He said he liked them because they were like me,
small and unusual. And purple, he added,
because purple is an unusual colour.
Forget-me-not,
except, he did, of course
I am worlds away from those mountains
and in every world since,
I have cried out to be remembered
by those who play on loops in my mind,
but been forgotten every time
until now.

I found other forget-me-nots floating through worlds like me,
girls with hard humour and soft hearts
who had been dropped and forgotten just as fast
and I remembered them,
and they remembered me,
and now I know what it’s like
and I am free —
thirteen again, a flashback to the past,
loved completely
in a moment.
But the moment lasts and lasts and lasts.