what would you leave behind if you could forget it completely?

not a person. not really.
i’ve tried before and it never sticks — faces and stories knot into the spine. there are songs i can’t play anymore because they still smell like someone’s cigarettes and aftershave and the lies they told. but i wouldn’t erase them, not even the worst of it. some things hurt in ways that sharpen you.

but if i could forget something completely, like shaking water from my sleeves, like it was never mine to carry —
i’d leave behind the feeling that i had to earn love by being useful.

you know the one.
the low thrum in your chest that says: be good. be helpful. be quiet. make the tea, learn their moods, edit their sentences, always understand.
and if you get it right, they’ll stay.
and if they leave, it’s because you failed.

i’d leave behind that lesson.
the one they never meant to teach, or maybe they did.
either way, it settled deep.
and i’ve been trying to unlearn it ever since, gently, the way you’d untangle fishing line from seaweed — patient, wet work.

if i could forget it completely, i think i’d be softer.
less afraid of needing things.
i’d speak quicker. i’d ask for the window seat. i’d tell someone not to touch me when i didn’t want to be touched, and i’d believe that was enough of a reason.

i don’t want to forget the versions of me that survived it.
but i’d leave behind the voice that told them that survival meant staying small.

and you?
what would you lay down, if forgetting it meant being free?