I smash open my skull and pry apart my frontal lobe ,
so I could forget how your smile made me felt.

I pull my teeth out with a pair of rusty pliers,
to make me forget the taste your tongue left me.

I tear my fingernails off and replace them with sharpened glass between the ripped flesh,
to forget the tender sweet touch from your hands.

I gorge my eyes out,
so I can forget how you used to look as you slept.

I stab my ear canals with scissors,
to forget the sound of you laughing.

I plug my nose up with mothballs,
so I forget how your clothes smelt when I wore them.

I peel off my skin piece by piece
to forget how soft your skin was.

I can’t forget.