Things I don’t remember but try not to forget

Things I don’t remember but try not to forget

I don’t know anything about the colour blue. I don’t know anything about Picasso. I don’t know anything about rolling heads. I don’t know anything about blowjobs. I don’t know anything about car crashes. I don’t know anything about drowning. I don’t know anything about cliff-diving. I don’t know anything about Siamese Twins. I don’t know anything about dying grandmothers. I don’t know anything about sleeping alone. I don’t know anything about Roland Barthes. I don’t know anything about sniffing glue. I don’t know anything about the National Curriculum. I don’t know anything about the drug dealers in the car park next to my house. I don’t know anything about the orange car with the blacked out windows. I don’t know anything about cannabis farms. I don’t know anything about oversized dresses. I don’t know anything about poets. I don’t know anything about the time it takes for a centimetre scar to heal. I don’t know anything about stealing from a warehouse in Manchester. I don’t know anything about vintage Lyons Raspberry Tea from 1999. I don’t know anything about love hearts made of wicker. I don’t know anything about Dennis Oppenheim. I don’t know anything about canoeing. I don’t know anything about going through the wall. I don’t know anything about Littlewoods catalogues and how my next door neighbour ran up a debt in my name. I don’t know anything about slaughtering lambs and how they smell alive in the abattoir. I don’t know anything about the stress you eat when you eat a beefburger. I don’t know anything about private messages. I don’t know anything about people who contact you and then never reply your emails. I don’t know anything about feeling sick every night and every morning as a general routine. I don’t know anything about gluten free chocolate stars. I don’t know anything about falling down the stairs. I don’t know anything about assassination. I don’t know anything about my daughter crying because my hands are always shaking. I don’t know anything about hospital food. I don’t know why I didn’t let my husband hug me today. I don’t know why I wear perfume every day whether I’m ill or not. I don’t know why I have never been able to look at birds or if it is just flashbacks. I don’t know anything about what makes me think I could be a novelist. I don’t know what to say any of the time. I don’t know why people say half the things they do. I don’t know why I have to explain myself. I don’t know why I can’t help you with your life, I’m not equipped. I don’t know why I wore a black dress to a wedding. I don’t know why I’m not a more interesting person. I don’t know anything about pain. I don’t know anything about pain. I don’t know anything about pain. I don’t know why I can’t finish reading Paradise by Toni Morrison. I don’t know why I buy my seven year old son maths books that have the answers in. I don’t know why nobody I know likes Catch 22. I don’t why I didn’t make a statement. I don’t know why a broken body. I don’t know why a broken heart. I don’t know anything about dreaming about women. I don’t know anything about dreaming about men. I don’t know why my psychiatrist wants to see me. I don’t know why I’m paying £15 per month for a fucking contraption. I don’t know why I never want a baby in my womb ever again. I don’t know why I’m getting bigger. I don’t know why paper aeroplanes. I don’t know why 2 string blues. I don’t know why he taught them to me, sat on his knee. I don’t know anything about taxidermy although they’re running classes in town and I’m sure there will be some interesting clientele. I don’t know anything about suicide, and I don’t mean the band. I don’t know anything about Death, and I don’t mean the band. I don’t know anything about the seventies men in town with side burns and dogs that look like bears with orange eyes. I don’t know anything about the man who sets off power walking every morning, and walks all day long. I don’t know why they didn’t listen the first time. I don’t know why we had to clean up our own vomit. I don’t know why I was sick once out of my nose. I don’t know why my memory chooses to retain that. I don’t worry about why my kids put the toothpaste in the beaker cap side down. I don’t worry about the things people worry about when they are worried. I don’t worry about why the curtains caught fire. I don’t worry about the germs on shopping trolley handles in Asda. I don’t worry about another cantankerous man collapsing next to me in Asda. I don’t worry about the Asda woman who is now the gym woman. I don’t worry about Indie press poetry collections being filed under fiction because there’s no poetry section in the pop-up Waterstones outlet in town. I don’t worry about casting my vote. I don’t worry about laughing when you want me to. I don’t worry about the bit in Salem’s Lot when the vampire scratches his nails down the window pane. I don’t worry about grinding my teeth all day. I don’t worry about the parts of my body that are totally fucked. I don’t worry about the 70’s swingers print fleece throw on our bed. I don’t dream about easily achieved orgasms. I don’t dream about people who make me feel screwed up. I don’t dream the same dreams you described the day before. I don’t dream about inappropriate crescendos. I don’t dream about doing it all again for a second time. I don’t dream about being loved. I don’t dream about a house so big you’d never be able to find your way out again. I don’t dream about me. I don’t dream about the wilderness inside. I don’t dream about telling you this. I don’t dream about the wilderness without. I am telling you this. I am telling you all of this. I don’t know anything about telling you all of this. I don’t dream about telling you all of this. I don’t worry about telling you all of this but I do. I am telling all of you.

3 thoughts on “Things I don’t remember but try not to forget

  1. Hey Melissa,

    I don’t know why your post makes me smile. I think it’s because I’m very glad to know you, and that you share your writing to the world.

    Thanks.

    Elly xx

  2. Pingback: Things I don't remember but try not to forget |...

  3. This is such rich writing! As for the dreams, did you read about the study that shows how women dream of interpersonal conflict while men dream of heroically confronting a supernatural threat? Venus/Mars.

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