To be forgotten

Welcome! Behold a piece which is something tragic but as a writer what could you expect?

Unsettling, I find it difficult to settle myself. Gazing upon my reflection in the mirror. I am soon to be forgotten. My radiant identity shall be tainted in pale white. To be tarnished and torn away like every drainage of blood leaking from my body.

To be unheard of. No, more interaction. It’s all a facade. Can I not have my recognition? Do I not even have a single thing to reconcile you with. Only my bones. I paint my bone in my blood. Sharpening it so I can write. The sharp bone of mine is like a knife. It’s handy for a pen. It splutters blood saying “remember me”

Every day, I contemplate my supposed funeral in a casket with roses. I’m an ancient being with everything beyond one’s capacity. The torment of every restless, sleepless nights devours me to extreme anxiety. Can I not have my identity? Why is it that I have to battle my destruction of being reborn? I am reborn and I shall not be forgotten. On the last page is my name.

Author's Note

I think it is up to you how you consider this. (psst I updated this)