Do you remember it?

The day I first said I’m weak—

it took a week to say it all; I misspeak

about the thoughts in my mind, and I had to rewind

when the wheels would squeak.

I’m not derailed, just a bit misaligned.

I know my head should unwind,

but I’m afraid of critique.

 

Do you remember it?

The blinking lights at the gate,

when all I ate that day was hot coffee and hate.

The sounds of worn-out tracks and ringing bells that would crack

until I couldn’t think straight.

You know, the people like to talk behind your shivering back.

They’re always pointing out the things that you lack,

and it’s a trampling weight.

 

Do you remember it?

I ask because it’s hard to explain

how a verbal stain became a shot of grease to my veins.

I didn’t think that it showed, until it leaked on the road

through the cracks in my train.

No one understands if the whistle’s blown in code.

Oil isn’t pretty, but I swear some of it glowed

as it dripped down the drain.

 

I don’t remember it—

feeling like my engine was strong.

Was it weak all along, and I was terribly wrong?

As long as I look fine and my paint coat shines,

I can pretend to belong.

The stations only notice if you’ve gone out of line,

and the people never wonder if they don’t see a sign.

So I keep whistling along.

 

I don’t remember it—

life without a trace of regret,

living with no daily fret, and my head wasn’t a threat.

Now my engine’s burnt out, and smells of soot, dirt, and doubt;

that’s as close to peace as I get.

I’m caught in the rain, but the railroad’s in a drought.

I built a station of lies, and I know that I could break out—

but every day I forget.

 

Help me remember it—

the days I wouldn’t excuse

accepting wearisome views about my train’s loose screws.

All the tracks to remake, a new oil for the brakes;

it seemed too good to refuse.

But what if comparison just makes my heart ache?

What if my own train tracks never were a mistake?

And what if there’s nothing to lose?

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