Color It Black

Poetry by Ashlyn Kincaid

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isn't it strange
how a memory can morph
not in the sense that certain pieces are forgotten 
I wish that's what I meant 
no 
I mean when a memory folds in on itself 
what was once delightful and cherished
becomes the most painful thing you could ever bring into your brain 

is anything finite?
it turns out it's easy to ruin a memory
logically that makes no sense
a memory is a memory
a fact is a fact
whatever happened is what happened 
how can something that happened after
change the facts?

I had a memory fold 
it’s us on the golf course
after hours 
drinking beers
letting mosquitoes feast on our summer skin
submitting to being prey 
because letting this moment end would be unthinkable 

that memory transformed 
now it twists the knife in my chest  
all I see is you lying
conspiring 
being callous 
taking everything you could from me as quickly as possible
using me up 
I see myself stupidly joyful, buoyant, and credulous
a dumbass  
a happy dumbass

if I could color it in completely
with black ink 
I would
every memory you infected
that might spare me the twisting of the knife ​

About the Writer

Ashlyn Kincaid is a self-proclaimed burnt-out graduate student exploring poetry.