[Shilukk]

I am a weapon.
An item.
An instrument.
A means to an end.

I am a doll.
A pet.
Kept on a leash, burning my throat.

I have no eyes to see. No mouth to scream. And I feel no desire to do either.
I am a husk. A collection of skin and meat and bone. More human than the heretic. But never quite human.
I live on the edge. I want to fall.

I delude myself into believing I can have these worldly possessions.
These human things. Materiel pleasures.
I delude myself into love.

I am a thing.
Forgotten.
A bullet, shot. It strikes the target, and its grave is their blood. Drowning. Forever.
No song. No praise. No recognition.
The wielder of my blade is showered with warmth while I remain in the cold.
Rusting in the shed. Until someone declares me useful again.

I look out at the waterscape. As I so often have.
I feel the breeze on my cheek. Yet a cheek I do not have.
I did not ask for this. I did not want this.
I do not have a choice.
And I do not care to have one.

I am a weapon. A thing. An item.
I am a doll. A pet. A means to an end.
My song is brief. My sanity dwindling.
I am a dancer.
A musician.
I am a lover.
A failure.
I am many things.
I am no things.

I know little.
I know less.
But that little I know, I know with all my being.


I am Arcen.

I am Death.

And I do not miss.