she rememberes the little things first.
her favorite color is purple
she likes blueberry pancakes,
and leaves pennies face-up on random street corners.
even with these pieces, it feels like
a huge chunk has been torn away that she could never retrieve
there are scars on her person
she does not remember getting.
her body is a map of memories
she does not know how to read.
they say she used to be calm and collected,
but now she is hot and fiery,
and they don't know her anymore.
but that's okay, because she doesn't know herself.
she misses the sun,
and the bad school coffee and English projects
and her own bed
and the person she was before.
even though she can't remember, she misses.
when they tell her what happened,
car crash. one dead, one survived.
internal bleeding. damage to the brain.
amnesia. amnesia. amnesia.
and she doesn't remember but she flashes between images
like loose strings that she can't help pulling.
a hand to hold. a quick smile. a skipped school.
a boy. a kiss. a Christmas. the thread that ties it all together
is white hot pain from every side.
the doctors say that she might not ever remember.
that night she mourns a boy she doesn't but did know
and a girl she doesn't see but still is.
she starts smoking. she tells her parents it's to relieve stress.
but really, she just wants to know what's
she still sometimes gets new old memories,
but she's okay with that. she's been able to
distinguish between past and present
and were and are for a long time now.
she still doesn't know, though,
which she is.