Everyone always made a big deal of having terrible memories.

Oh, I forgot! My memory's so terrible, I'm so sorry, I'll remember for sure next time!

And then our ways to keep track of things improved, complete with calendars and alarms.

And then there's me. Memories were always so easy for me to create, so easy to recall. If someone asked me to do something, I'd always remember. I became known as reliable, and yet, even as I feel blessed that someone would call me that, I'd always tuck myself in at night and cry. I'd cry about my memories, and know that they would never abandon me.

I wish they would forget about me. I wish my memories would go off and find some better owner than me, someone who might actually appreciate them. But truly, it seems like my memories are only here for torture. Even as I tried to change myself, tried to change my surroundings, everything else stood still, unchanging, as if telling me my efforts were futile. Even as I tried so hard to push everything away, they would always come back to haunt me in some sort of way.

I thought I was your friend.

So even as I stand before parents, before friends, all that clouds my vision are series of broken promises, things they told me they would do, things that I trusted them with. I see shards of what used to be called trust, their whispers carving out wisps of stolen dreams.

And here is my friend, or what used to be my friend, an empty shell of what could have been. There were days––hell, weeks––of shushed laughter, of times of connection through overreaching darkness.

I thought I was your friend.

Now I am reduced. Now I am but a stranger, someone you've never seen before in your life.

Say, why do I hurt so much? Why do I have these memories of things that don't matter, of things that matter the most? Why do they stab into my heart without the slightest bit of mercy?

I––

I just wanted to be happy.

It was like a curse––to be treasuring such meaningless things, the meaningless things that had the most meaning.

And then stabbed––again––by the words of an age-old friend.

I see.

So I don't matter anymore.

And thus, it's a simple matter.

I need to forget.

That's right––a simple matter of forgetting.

I need to forget.

Simple.

I am more than what others make of me.