I ache with questions
to which the answers don’t
really matter,
when knowing won’t change
what is.
Memories are just softly polished
versions of truth,
to be tucked away once
sharp edges are smoothed
to one’s perception of what was.
If I was turned inside out,
tender innards brutally exposed,
they would tumble out in the
shape of bones
with bits of cartilage thinly attached
to my former self.
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