Forgetful to a fault-
never eager to remember what has been,
because that only translates to what I’ve lost.
And if forgetting means ripping parts of my flesh,
I’ll do it with a smile
as if I’m shedding
the no longer needed:
I’ll give my wings-
reminders of my fall.
I’ll give my sore veins-
reminders of crimson red on white skin,
of crimson red on a white moon.
No memories will stain my life,
as the night sky is stained with light
unwilling to let true darkness exist.

Heroes are only born when remembered;
but I am to be forgot.
Remember me not.