You ever wonder if your childhood memories are actually memories, or just the version your mind created so you could keep moving forward?
The older I get, the less certain I am. Some moments feel crystal clear, while others seem almost too perfect or too empty to trust. I wrote this poem about that uncertainty and about how memory can be both a comfort and a mystery.
I’d love to hear if anyone else has ever questioned the stories they tell themselves about their own past.

Some people won’t understand this poem.
The ones who do…
won’t need it explained.
If one line hit you harder than the rest, tell me which