I keep forgetting to forget about you

your love tore my whole heart out

leaving it ground into flecks of sawdust

leavings strewn on the ground of my life.

I’m bleeding inside learning to survive

without your love and passion warming me

encircling me with what once was.

I tried to replace you but the new man

in my life looks like a clone of you

walks like you, talks like you, reminds me of you

raising the fear that he’ll soon be your twin.

How could you leave me, waking me up

from our warm bed to say goodbye as

you slung you suitcase over your shoulders

slammed the door and left me in shreds?

Tramping on to new horizons, you hike away

from me leaving my painful proclamation

“The last letters of lonesome spells me.”

#challenge @PainOfBeingForgotten #BleedingInside

never mind.

in your eyes i am nothing anymore.

those flowers you gave to me,

they've withered now.

forget-me-nots they were,

forget-me-now you have.

alone i am, locked within a cold box.

a dusty old file, never touched upon.

as much as you said you loved me,

you wished you could forget.

how cruel, how cruel,

forevermore left to rot.

never mind.

in your eyes i am nothing anymore.

She loved me once. I can barely remember the last time she held me, let alone touch me. I don't even know how soft I am anymore. I sit on her dresser, making friends with the dust bunnies who grow behind her piggy bank and wait for the moment she sees me again. Every day, she walks past me and I hold my breath for just a glance in my direction. I get none and I'm suppose to be okay with that.

There was a time where she couldn't go to bed without me. She'd cry if Mother stole me to wash me and then complain that I didn't smell the same. I wasn't suppose to smell like roses and buttercup blossoms. She couldn't explain it, but I knew what she meant. I always did. I remember what she smelled like. Peanut butter and fresh chocolate chip cookies. Her laugh is a faint hum in my ears. I never hear her laugh anymore.

I try to remind myself that I'm just a bear. I'm stuffed for a reason so I shouldn't care. I see her now, twice the size she was, with pink hair and metal in her mouth. She rolls her eyes and curses now. She was so sweet and small. Like me. I'm old now, with more stuffing in my left leg than my right. One blue button for an eye because the dog thought I was his toy. I never found my other eye. She stopped looking for it years ago. Maybe I should too. 

She tosses in her sleep now, mumbling and sweating. I watch with distress, hoping the nightmares would leave her alone. All I do is sit and watch, in tormented agony, knowing I can't do anything from the neglected prison she left me in. I know she would sleep better with me, she always did. 

I haven't slept in years. 

     Four students, all with severe deficits cognitively, behaviorally and functionally.  All four, nonverbal.  And me, a teacher.  A referee?  A gatekeeper?  A human electric fence?  Sand on linoleum floor.  Water spilled, because bubbles in the sink entertain.  Doors closed, a mere challenge to open and bolt out- up stairs, down stairs, pass general education students attending to their school day desk work.  And one wanted the toy of another.  With no verbal language, he attempted to take it.  The other student, unable to verbalize "hey, that's mine", scratched him and I (holding my runner student's hand to sweep with me the sandy floor, should have seen and prevented this "forgotten" student's wound.  Welcome back to the perpetual feeling of inadequacy that comes with teaching.  Welcome back to school!

I was so sure back then, just as I am sure now.

I walk to the door, the last place I recall, and the first place I know to look.

Something is different – odd.

It’s the smell. Musty. The wood is old and weathered. The paint flakes in the wind as the chips stick to my plaid shirt. I feel the boards creak under my boots, for they are as tired as my weary feet.

The door is stiff, but unlocked.

The golden coin that hangs in the sky is fast falling into a distant slot, and its sheen spills into the empty room. Cobwebs dangle above a cracked vase in the corner, and the light flows over dust grown thick in neglect.

I will keep you hale and hearty aloft in memory. In such fondness you will stay, for the reality will be too painful. Up there it’s the first day, every day.

For there is the last place you remember me.

The temptation is to call Heather childish. Perhaps I should call her clever because she got exactly what she wanted. She got to forget me.

It wasn't a dare. When I told her she wouldn't do it, I thought she would threaten, but not follow through just like all the other times.

"Watch me," she said

That's the worst part. She made me watch. I tried to shake my head dismissively and walk away only to have her grab my wrist and pull me back into the fray.

She sputtered and twitched. I reached for her puffed out cheeks to deflate them. A scorpion sting would've hurt less than the slap she landed on my face.

She didn't turn blue like people do in cartoons. Her face was a dark shade of red. A darker shade of red pooled around her head after she hit the floor.

The police and doctors were skeptical about the story at first. The neighbors heard screaming. Her handprint was still on my cheek when they arrived.

It was an accident. That's what everyone keeps telling me. I've heard "it's not your fault" more times than I count.

I contemplated it being my fault. Maybe I called her too much. Or loved her too much. Maybe I smothered her figuratively and caused her to suffocate literally.

Her sister met me in the waiting room. She told me about their slumber party games and how they would hold their breath until they passed out.

"We thought it was hilarious. We'd only be out for like a minute then wake up and have no idea where we were," her sister said.

"But," she began, her voice catching.

"But, we'd always wake up," she sobbed.

The test results confirmed her brain was deprived of oxygen for too long. Her vegetative state would be permanent.

I visit her daily. I talk about us. I've bent our photo album pages from flipping through them so many times. I have hope something will stimulate a response.

Sometimes a tear will trickle down her face. Part of me wants it to be remorse, but I'd settle for remembrance. The doctors dispelled me of that notion. They told me it's just an involuntary reaction likening it to gases moving around in a decedent giving the impression the body is still breathing.

I latched onto that.

"If a body is breathing, it's alive. If it's alive it has thoughts and feelings. And memories," I protested.

"No one would blame you if you walked away. Our family appreciates all you've done for her," her sister said.

I shook my head. I knelt at Heather's bedside.

"If you want me to leave, just say so," I said.

No answer.

"That's what I thought," I said.

I picked up our wedding album. I sat on the bed beside Heather.

My fingertips traced the gilded letters on the cover.

"A day to remember," I said reading the album cover.

I opened it to page one.

Among the things causing us the most pain, it's a sad, long list of adjectives brutalizing our confidence, esteem, and image of ourselves. If we were better, worth more, if we were better... We wouldn't be left in the darkness of a room someone forgot to pay the electricity on. 

Of all the things causing us pain, the adjectives we use to describe them are uncomfortably fitting. 

Lonely.

Lost.

Unloved.

Broken.

Hurt.

Beaten.

Forgotten. 

What could hurt more than losing your significance? 

People suggest the world would be a better place if more people took a moment to stop, smell the flowers, and watch the stars at night. Finding solace in the expanse of the unfathomable universe can be a grounding thing. And it can also make you realize your insignificance. 

If we're insignificant, we're easy to forget. And if we're easy to forget, what's the point of finding your purpose? What's the point of feeling loved? What's the point of trying to convince yourself you matter? 

A child sits on bus bench. Their face isn't contorted with emotion. Instead, it is more or less blank. They don't know how to put a word to the way they feel. But we do. 

The child sits there, tired from playing on the playground behind the bus bench. The slide was fun, the swings made her giggle. The fun fades, leaving tired in its wake. It's getting darker, colder. Night is coming, bringing shadows the child is afraid of. There's no one to tell the child it's okay. Night will fade to morning. 

She's hungry. She's tired. She's getting scared. There's no one to help her find her way home, find her family, and find safety. And she doesn't understand why she was left there, alone. 

The pain of feeling forgotten will never leave her. And it never quite leaves us, either. Especially when we seldom get answers for why we were left. Lack of certainty breeds a certain proclivity for self doubt. 

Self doubt is everything and we believe what doubt tells us. 

The pain of being forgotten is the gateway to losing ourselves. If someone can forget us, we might as well forget ourselves. 

The smell of caffeine fills the air. I know caffeine isn't a smell, but caffeine creates an energy that hits my senses in the same way. For the past two months, I have come and sat at the same cafe, attempting to surround myself with a feeling other than loneliness. I choose a seat by the window, hoping to catch additional energy from those passing by on the street. I'm not sure if coming here helps, but then again I don't know how bad I might feel if I didn't come.

I tell myself that I am here to revel in the simple joys of everyday life. Staying at home has become tiresome. I long for interaction.

But I'm really here to catch a glimpse of you. Through the window I watch. I don't want to forget. You remind me of the possibility of happiness.

The weather is shifting. Your attire is my weather gauge. From an overcoat to a light sweater. Spring is in the air -- a new hope for some. For me, the budding trees are just an unpleasant reminder that change is inevitable.

The sight of you makes me hurt, but right now I live for the bittersweet. I may have been forgotten, but I won't forget you.

'It's all in your mind. It's because you're getting old,' Laurie repeated to herself. She was, after all, reaching the tender age of 72 and lately, nothing seemed to be right. She didn't understand why her house was constantly flooded with strangers. She didn't understand why she always felt something was missing. 'It's just Old Time catching up to me. I'm acting silly.' With a tired sigh, Laurie slowly but surely gripped her fingers tightly around a pen that was lying around and lined the tip up to a piece of paper.

'Dear me,

You don't remember many things, and I don't know why. As of tomorrow, you will be 72 years old. I just want to wish you a Happy Birthday! It seems like it was just yesterday when Allie-' Laurie stopped writing.

'Why did I write Allie?' she wondered. She didn't recall anyone named Allie. Feeling a little dazed, Laurie crossed off the sentence she had just written. She then stared at the pen her hand. 'What is this? What am I doing with a pen? I must be going bonkers.' After briefly coaxing her unwilling knees, Laurie decided to clear the air with a stroll.

As Laurie slowly shuffled along the carpeted hallway, a younger woman bumped into her and dropped the name tag she was about to stick on. 'Hi! I'm looki-' the young woman abruptly took in a short breath and stared. Laurie curiously looked at the stranger. 'Sweetie, you dropped your name tag.' She bent down and picked it up. 'Oh! What a silly coincidence. Just today, I ...' she trailed off furrowing her brows. 'Where did I see this name again?'

'Oh.' The young woman teared up and gently grabbed the name tag from Laurie. She stepped back a couple steps, as if afraid of something. Slowly brushing the back of her hands against her misty eyes, she blubbered, 'I-I miss you. They told me not to come, but I-'

'Why, come where? What are you talking about? You're-' Laurie frowned. She didn't remember. Did she know this woman standing in front of her? There was a twinge of familiarity, but nothing rang a bell. 'Sorry honey, I must've bumped into you because of my clumsiness! Please excuse me. I don't know what ... I don't-' Laurie continued to mumble as she slowly made her way down the hall.

Allie's hands wouldn't stop shaking when she brought them up to her mouth to cover her impending sobs. Her Mother had forgotten her face and her name. With every further step that Laurie took away from her, a bigger piece of her heart chipped away. 'It's okay. It's okay,' she chanted as her body started to hyperventilate. When her knees finally gave out on her, she reminisced back to the days where her Mother would smile and say, 'It'll be okay Allie Pie. I will always hold your hand because nothing has the power to come between the love that I have for you.'

I don't mind being forgotten. I know that in your life I'm a passer by and after all those memories, it was time to move on.

I don't mind being forgotten. But it's been so long, I don't know if I still remember how to recover.

I don't mind being forgotten. But I wish you would at least remember my contribution to your life.

I don't mind being forgotten, but I mind if I'm deleted.