In the dying of evening the spirits mourn,
The memories resurface and take over.
Making it difficult to think about anything else,
Soon the numbing sensation will appear.
That is the ultimate hope.
Every thought revolves around the main source of her pain,
She cries herself to sleep hoping one day she will forget everything.
These tears, they are caused by the realization of all that was lost,
All that can't be taken back and fixed.
She's a hypocrite, always saying everything happens for a reason,
But she doesn't believe it herself.
Every day is a battle, one that is lost to the memories,
Even in sleep there is no escape.
The dreams were always tainted with memories,
To the point that nightmares seemed much more appealing.
This pain, caused by every memory, was it worse than hell?
She wondered how one part of her past could affect her so much.
"The past makes you what you are."
It repeats itself; as if to give false hopes that the result would be different.
She was told no one could be