Recollections suit no more favor than that of one’s deepest burdens…and these I carry are eternal. If only- as the dead do not tell- I could be. Alas, I am the memory of what’s been lost and what will not become, but could have been. Tell me, child, have you ever bandaged a stranger’s skin?
Witnessed severed limbs, bent ring fingers to then again be taught indifference towards any single sin?
Kissed your first love’s lips?
Learned to collect fragments of every childhood aspiration in order to compress them into dispersed cysts across your shedding skin?
Not only run from your duties, but as the coward you’d been afraid to be; resist?
And following, known your assistance had been missed?
After all; not knowing you had, for however long, been feeling like this?