Consent Forms by Tammy Smith

When I say I can’t remember,
it means I won’t tell you why I did it

Not in the middle of a crowded emergency room.
Not while you’re hugging a clipboard.
I refuse to fill out any of your forms.
Stop staring at my scars.
I haven’t given you consent to trespass on memories.

When I say I can't remember,
it means I don’t trust you.

Not in the middle of a crowded bar.
Not while you’re holding an empty glass.
I won’t fill your needs.
Stop staring at my full bosom.
I haven’t given you consent to suck from my bottle.

Why not isn’t the answer you're looking for,
but it’s fun to curl my lips around the tight t
at the end of the sentence and sneer.

Maybe we just want different shots.
You can’t sip from my cup and refuse to tip the bartender.
Never assume soft drinks are free.

When I say I can’t remember,
it means I feel uncomfortable sharing my story with you.
Admissions become part of discharges.

Seeking consent to release information is sacred work.
Did that even happen is the worst way you ask why.

Tammy Smith, a social worker from New Jersey, draws inspiration from her work in mental health. Her writing has been published in the Dewdrop, Ailment: Chronicles of Illness Narratives, Ariel Chart, the Esthetic Apostle, Unlimited Literature, and in io Literary Journal.