The truth?

I wish I weren't the only one who has to bear these things. The part of my past which are now inappropriate to remember, I threw them all out of my life. Sometimes I miss them, but there's no way left to go back to it... not that I want to. It's just that there always seems to be a moment where I am helpless, left with the unfair feeling of having nothing to make you feel at least half as bad as I did. My past has forgotten me, while yours keep haunting me. I cleaned mine while yours will always have bits and pieces lying around for me to stumble upon. It isn't your fault, of course. It's just a sick sad reality that some things will never be completely gone, that it is perpetually there to incite anxiety which I will never get enough of, and the best one can do is pretend that it burns in a photo.