i am the unreliable narrator
i find myself unable to distinguish
between real and not real
a memory and hopeful thinking
a waking moment or a moment of rest
i wish i could take my brain and unravel it
become an archaeologist and dig
to unearth what i have forgotten
my memories are like fossils and jewels
buried for safekeeping
to be forgotten
or just slipped through the cracks
i want to find one of my mothers face, her voice
press it between two wax papers
and hang it on the fridge
like she did when i picked her flowers
or at least i think she did
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i would do anything to what her hug feels like
to hear in her voice that it’s going to be okay
what i can of her is fuzzy
like a sweater that’s washed worn too many times
of all the things to forget, i don’t know why it had to be her
i’m sorry mom