I Can't Forgive If I Can't Forget

I was one of those who never understood forgiveness —

at least, not the kind I was taught.

I was one of those who can’t forgive without a “sorry.”

One of those who never forget.

-

I could tell you about the days they hurt me,

the nights I cried,

the promises that were never kept.

I could take you with me to that world —

the world of those who resent but don’t hate,

of those who let go but never forgive.

-

I was taught to forgive, but never forget.

I grew up in a society that says:

“Forgive not for them, but for yourself —

to heal, to be better.”

-

But don’t we need stitches and alcohol

before a wound can heal?

Don’t we need an apology first?

-

They ask me to clean my own wound —

as if I shot myself.

But don’t I deserve a nurse too?

A doctor — someone?

-

Hypocrites — that’s what they were.

They want us to forgive what we can never forget.

They want us to free ourselves from demons

they summoned into us — into me.

-

I tried to tell them:

I’m not like them.

I won’t lie to myself.

-

I can’t stitch the wounds carved open

by the hands I once loved and trusted to heal them.

I needed a nurse. A doctor. I needed them.

-

But I learned early on that this world

would never want to understand —

not even if I wrote it down in ink and blood,

not even if I screamed at the top of my lungs —

-

I can’t forgive

if I can’t forget.