Penthesilea

When I buried and incanted your ruin a moon ago I promised to think of you no more. Even now, I break it daily.

 I thought if I breathed into that frame and those lips I could break our curse. Enchantments I wrote in your flesh brought us only further incarceration. Your eyes are still glass. Larvae specks in your smile the unspoken imagos of our sin. The sum of my success was a half life at best.

 Vacillant, I dragged the shovel for miles to the mire I interred you, my shroud a march of rain, to the pit I abandoned our shame. I moved earth until dawn, sloughing a mount, but your remains are gone. I leave your barrow open.

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