Last Pringle
At the bottom of my distant memories I find the forgotten.
Those that simply withered away as they aged, and those that were buried and meant to rot.
Though, in finding the forgotten I also find myself, digging up those bodies with my hands alone.
I do not do it to convict myself of enjoying the suffering in brushing off the bones.
I feel as if I do it to make sure.
To make sure that this is really how things were supposed to be, supposed to end.
More often than not I myself crawl into the grave to see if there was an alternative way out.
A way that would have caused less harm to me.
Or maybe a way that would have kept the body in tact.
The further I reach the more I catch myself trying to scrape all the grime off the walls to make sure I did not miss any evidence, any chance, and hope that maybe things could have been different.
Because if they could have been, then I might not feel as if I’m lying with the bodies when I’m still six feet higher.
I dug myself out of that dirt, I swam up out of those depth, yet I feel as if there is still an anchor attaching me to them or a coffin to keep me enclosed.
I don’t belong down there, they do.
That’s where I put them after all.
Written 14 February 2026 at 4:34 AM
0 views • 0 likes