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I am losing memories
like parts of myself.
They spill out
of my mouth
with watermelon seeds
I'd compete to spit
further and further away
when I was 7;
and drip
down my chin and arms
with the juice of mangoes
I buried my face in
on hot summer days
at 10 or 12 or 15.
They wash out
of my hair
with the oil
my mother spent ages rubbing in
back from when I used to let her
care about my hair
and rub off
with the sand
that collected between my toes
from trips to the beach.
They fall out
of my pant pockets
with other loose change
I've forgotten about
only to resurface -
washed up, tattered, not quite the same.
They come back
as characters in photographs
kept in an album by my bedside
from which I'd pick stories
to ask my parents to read to me
again and again and again
till I learnt them, as if
they were parts of myself.
About this Poem
I believe the spaces we occupy at different periods of our lives are versions of ourselves.
I am actually losing memories. I don't remember much from my childhood or details of things from even 5 years ago. Considering that I'm not very old, this feels strange and like I'm losing parts of myself.
Process and Form
I felt like writing a spoken word poem today since it's been a while since I did one, so I didn't focus too much on spatial form. (This didn't turn out like a typical spoken word poem, but I'll still make a recording of it soon.)
Here the progression matters more than structure. I start off with relatively more detailed accounts of incidents including my exact age but as the poem progress the incidents become more vague, like they could've happened at anytime and then to anyone.
Sometimes I like to end my poems where they started, which is again what I've done with this, but there is a significant shift, from losing parts of myself, or my story, to learning what feels like someone else's story as parts of myself.