“No use crying over spilled milk.”
It’s the only thing I can think of
sitting on my bedroom floor
sobbing over a half gallon of milk
that had been put to waste because of me.
I forgot to put the milk back in the fridge.
It spoiled and my brother had to pour it out.
“I forgot.”
A simple enough explanation
but who really believes it
when it’s always the cause of my mistakes?
When things that had been so familiar
are now completely foreign to me?
A spoon had me stumped for thirty seconds once.
I don’t maliciously forget things.
I just forget things all the time.
Either chalk it up to my PTSD
or blame it on my perceived incompetence.