The most dangerous part of forgetting,

is remembering

what was forgot,

as it never happened,

fabricated just for you;

it’s a story,

now,

true as truth ever has been true,

a truth, ecstatic,

akin to

a story told to kin who,

tucked-in tight, will half-listen and half-fall asleep and half-dream to;

they will forget

what they never remembered;

eventually, so will you;

I will, too!

We remember red when we saw blue,

so many of our memories aren’t true;

we remember them as they weren’t,

aren’t,

and for what they didn’t do,

as long as it’s true to you.

Who are they, then?

Neither them, nor you;

a manifestation conjured to pin yourself to,

dismantling them,

destroying you;

Who are they?

On the list, they’re just above you.

That’s the truth that has never been true:

if it happened to them, it can’t happen to you.

That’s how we’re forgotten, remember;

if we forget who said what when about who.

I think I remember something like that.

I can’t remember who said it,

so it must be true.