remember

I can’t write three poems a day anymore
and I can’t even look at my diary because
my hand hurts after holding a pen
———–for more than five minutes.
Everything I write is terrible
and I’m discarding more than I used to,
but I refuse to throw this one away.
I want to say so many things
but I’ve lost the will to say them
and it doesn’t seem like anyone’s listening anyway.
I used to have a wish
that I would be remembered
but, late at night,
I wouldn’t mind being forgotten.

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