Forgetting

My skin has no more space for words;

they come out my eyes instead,

pointy and impolite.

They told me, you’re not done

until we say you are.

My heart has no more tolerance

for carving the pain of children

into the spines of books,

my hands bloody when I put them

back on the shelves.

Their moans pursue me

down library aisles.

Like everyone, I’ve already forgotten

more than I ever knew.

It’s better to forget some things.