My wasted memory
is messing with me.
A memory where
I was left
hanging threaded
through a needle
I found in a haystack.

My past showed up and
she sent my thoughts into
a vortex of uneasiness.

I tried to reconcile
with that memory,
but it wasn’t as
rectifying as I had hoped.

Chaos surrounds the calm realm
I store the memory—waiting for
its chance to erupt and
resurrect what I wished would stay
dead.

It’s a wasted memory
for a reason—
I want it to stay that way.

She comes off as rude
and makes it obvious—
the only time she ever
makes her intentions known.

She took advantage of
my vulnerability
and left me sunk
as lost treasure.

I need to learn
to see some things
for what they are sometimes,
and that sometimes
a memory is just a memory.

I’m wasted, it’s wasted;
give me a double shot
of Jack Daniels
and let’s keep things that way.