I grew up and forgot to forget

They always told me: you grow up and forget. When I fell and my eyebrow was injured, when the math teacher forced me to stand and face the wall because I forgot that 7 × 6 = 42, when my bicycle broke and they didn't buy me another so I wouldn't break it, when my soul's bottle broke, when my parents died, when I didn't die, when the world was too much and I was alone, when my brother slaughtered my doll because "Barbie" is forbidden, and they erased the "Spacetoon" channel because "Pokemon" is forbidden. When they removed my mother and father's picture from the frame and buried it in the broken drawer so the angels wouldn't cast them out, when the cracks in the walls filled with demons, when I was forced to enter the girls' college to preserve my chastity, when I was presented to a friend for marriage to preserve my chastity, when I tore my book covers to protect them from being burned, when I wrote my first poem under a box of tissues trembling with fear, when I was pulled by my hijab during my first poetic morning, when they finally slapped me, they all told me: you grow up and forget. The problem is that I grew up and did not forget, I grew up and forgot to forget.