Dear Memoir

To the memoir who won’t write itself for some reason,

Why?

We have spun up many tales from the depths of our mind.

There may even be some truth somewhere.

Getting to know myself has been a medicated ride to mental hospitals and therapy sessions.

Except we never have gotten far enough to be admitted, I’ll admit.

We did not go through – hmm, no – we aren’t going through years of torment not to write some shitty autobiography that people might be able to relate to.

People aren’t going to be able to relate to hyper-specific poems and stories that I type anyway.

Type because God knows my handwriting is shit.

We couldn’t have “illegible” on top of “doesn’t make sense” in the review of our life.

Why am I saying “we” when I haven’t written you yet?

Is there a “yet”?

The fact is, Memoir, I am absolutely horrified to write you.

What if, in my manic state, I have woven tall tales of extreme misadventure so that someone, anyone, could pay attention to it.

I might plagiarize you so that we can sound a bit more interesting.

A bit more hurt, perhaps.

Maybe I’ll make it make sense.

Generally speaking, I hate you.

I hate you because I don’t know who you are, what you are.

Are you me or are you some sappy tale of woe that, in my depressive state, I created.

I guess I create you either way.

I hate you.