Every time you reach back for a memory,
You think you’re replaying a tape.
But it isn’t a tape it’s wet clay in your hands,
Reshaped the moment you touch it.
Your first kiss,
The fight that broke you,
The day you swore you’d never forget.

They’re all ghosts you’ve rewritten,
Paintings smeared by each glance.
What you’ve told yourself so many times you’ve forgotten the original script.
You can no longer tell where the real ends and the lie begins.

The past you swear by,
The moments you’d die to defend,
They may never have happened the way you remember.

Memory is not a photograph.
It’s a rumour your brain repeats until even you believe it.

If your own memories are lies we can’t untangle,
Then what,
If anything,
Is truly real?