Things I Don't Want to Remember

I don't want to remember how your eyes saw me differently,

specs and swirls of purity and evil,

and you wondered how such a thing could even exist.

I don't want to remember how your voice became something I ached for,

like the greed from a man who could never be satisfied with just the touch of one woman,

you had different sides and different scents and I needed them all.

I don't want to remember how your youthful hands colored my blank canvas full of invisible pain,

and how your lips were paint brushes across my skin,

creating a bigger masterpiece.

I don't want to remember how your hand always trembled with anger,

hurtful words and spiteful glances were exchanged between us,

and our bodies intertwined with no remorse.

I don't want to remember how you flourished during my absence,

as if my palpating heart were a distraction,

and you needed time to think.

I don't want to remember how easy it was for you to drown in my sea of charm,

with a wrath filled with panic and caution,

I threw you upon my shores of new beginnings and classic tragedies.