They say you should write what you know.
They tell you to draw from your experiences and share them with the world,
but how can I do that when I don't want to share it with myself?
I try, however.
I try to find the right memory,
the right experience,
the right words.
I search my brain aimlessly for a memory that isn't too faded or "improved on" with glitter
or where the details are glossed over for purposed of retelling a better tale.
How is it possible for me to have lived so long but not be able to recall memories?
To have been so many places but allow their faces to turn to dust?
Is it too hard to hold onto so many hands that I end up letting too many go?
Why do I feel alone
in a house that's filled with laughter and light?
my house is a good house
but I am not enough to fulfill the mold I have made myself
so instead I fill my stomach
to try to feel
less empty
inside
my mind.