Out of Sight, Out of Mind

I don't like looking up when I wash my hands.

I don't like staring at my arms and wrists for too long. 

I don't like passing by the mirror after I take a shower.

I don't like seeing the endless abundance of trees that fills my peripheral every time I step foot into a forest.

I don't like glancing at the liquor department at the grocery store. 

I don't like looking at the woods near my house look at night, especially in the winter.

I don't like looking at blue Toyota Corollas. 

I can't stand looking at people with curly hair, or hazel eyes.

And what I hate the most is driving by Apache Trail, knowing that if I glance one inch to the side, I would see that railway bridge. I would see the memories of that night play out before me in my mind. I would see everything that happened.

I would see him. I don't want to.

Maybe if I just don't look at those things, it'll be fine, and I'll forget what I look like, and I'll forget what he looked like.  

I'll try not to think about it, because I know I'll just end up losing myself, like what I almost did when I knew him.