“the knife remembers what the hand forgets.”
the night found me first.
it always does.
it knows the cracks in my armor
better than I do.
it whispered my name
in a voice shaped like old wounds—
a voice I’ve spent years killing,
one memory at a time.
they say suffering forges men
but mine only ever forged shadows.
shadows with teeth.
shadows with hunger.
shadows carved from every choice
I bled for.
the gods asked for sacrifice.
I gave them everything
except my fear.
so they took that too—
and left me with purpose.
a colder thing.
a sharper thing.
my sword is no holy relic.
it is a grave that learned to speak.
it hums against my palm
like it remembers the warmth
of every throat it kissed.
I keep swinging anyway.
duty is quieter than guilt.
if there is salvation,
it waits beyond betrayal,
past the bones of my better self.
but I am not walking toward salvation.
I am walking toward the one
who ruined the man I was
and made the monster I became.
and when I finally reach him,
I will prove one truth:
some hearts are so broken
the only mercy left
is the mercy you do not survive.
