You can’t simply delete pictures from your brain.
You can burn the physical photographs,
or simply tear them up and toss them in the garbage.
Memory doesn’t work that way.
I hate the way your face is burned into my thoughts.
I hate that you haunt my dreams,
causing me to wake with a start
and search my room for signs of intrusion
until I can calm myself enough to know
how far away you are from me
and that I’m safe, at least for now.
I see you arise from the deepest depths,
and I cringe, your sadistic smile a tattoo,
a brand that strikes me with fear.
But I’m tired of being afraid.
Your picture will always remain to remind me
of the mistake I made when I returned your gaze
that night, when I entered your bed the next,
when I drank with you, told you my deepest secrets
that you could only use against me.
I cared for you once,
But no more.
If you so choose to enter my life again,
I will push you out, though your face
will never disappear.
I would make myself hate you,
but to do so would be to sink to your level.
I can only hope that my face is burned inside you
to remind you of the feral beast
you really, truly are.
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