Never Dance Upon His Grave, It's Not Polite

Mr. Grave Digger walk me slowly, let your lantern burn bright. How am I suppose to trust you though, Mr. Grave Digger? Today you kept his secret. The car in the parking lot should have been bathed in rain, because you aren't allowed to steal her tears. The white lines were the only division of direction between her and my haunted past; her stolen tears should have washed them clean. Perhaps if the raindrops chose to dance, their illusion would have been enough to divert her attention from the left. I suppose we'll never know, it's too late now. Wrong turn after wrong turn, why does fate have such a cold touch, Mr. Grave Digger? There was no rain. There was nothing cascading upon the smooth glass protecting her from the real world, from the same seemingly unknown surroundings of her past. There was nothing letting the glass bleed, letting the glass clot, letting the glass heal. The cold-blooded fate would never spill her tears to protect innocence; self-sacrifice is its only desired quality.

You always intended for innocence to be broken, Mr. Grave Digger. He was just borderline a silhouette, a silhouette corrupt. His skeleton was constructed with such detail, with paint so angrily thrown upon him, she was forced to remember. It seems as though she isn't allowed to forget. I remember him well. I remember what it felt like when the truth finally seeped through the barrier which blinded me from his reality, so many wasted months just a blur. I let his ink bleed and I let his ink fade, but the ink can only bleed until the paper heals. The ink can only fade until the paper attempts to reconstruct. She is attempting to reconstruct with the pieces of past destruction, and her little soul is unaware this paper will always read the same. I remember everything; he has made a home within my cobwebbed memory of ancient business. If I can remember everything so well, why can't I remember to forget? I'll be alright.

I've come to realize, one skeleton can have only so many graves.