With the axe in hand I grip the memory, working myself sweaty.
I whittle the body off, piece by piece,
peeling off its exterior like a skin from its body.

A scent of fresh wood pools around me.

Soon the body can hardly stand, its shape forever changed;
now bare, unstable, unusable and fragile.

Around me on the ground are what remains,
forever separated from their wounded body.

The piles of hewn wood are now their own and I am careful not to step on them.

I leave this relic scattered and broken.
The absence of me in every wound, every shard, every fleck.