Apply whiteout to these distant memories

Create this folder and neglect it

In hopes that we may forget it

Organize each train of thought

Train the mind how to not

Feel these things as it should

It's for your own damn good

The inferior pattern of his truly

He is anything but true

Speak of the pain he inflicted before we knew

How far he was beyond repair

All that we could do was spare

Ourselves from his grippening grasp

In a desperate hope to detach

From the monster who threw our balance

There would only be this one chance

We would take it and look our last

Upon the mess of a forgotten past.