8 Years

8 years.
Cheated some, probably.

But still, 8 years.

For one girl.

8th anniversary: girl brings different boy.
Kisses boy.

"We're over," said girl.

You could hear the cracks.

A piece I won't get back

Sometimes I forget.
I forget that I'm necessary,
             that I'm loved,
             that I matter,
             that I am strong.

These days, I've forgotten these things more often than I'd like.
As if little by little, an eraser has quietly been rubbing away another piece of me.
A piece I won't get back.

I miss more people now.
I miss familiar touches.
I miss the sound of people's voices,
and I miss the physical presence of those
I love.

I don't want to forget, but I do.
What if I forget everything?
What then will I be.

Don't forget me.
Don't forget me.