all of my pain has threatened to kill me
but in failing, decided to swing the ax down upon the memory of itself
memory: a broken thing beady eyes blinking wild
and called that mercy.
mercy: a funeral in the night with no mourning.
but we, necromancers, our hands always reach into dirt,
we want something.
we call that something truth.
every time i bring up the body of memory /
it is less a wet and yielding thing.
grows hard and dry in the dark.
is eaten. shrinks
something else grows.
a lightness begging
to become nothing.