I leave my first grave and beg it to forget. I leave and I leave and I leave. My first grave is my first death, my first grave is where I always return.
One, two, five, twelve, twenty, thirty, fifty.
My death is not always new and it is not always death. My first grave overflows but still I come back, get down on my knees and clasp my hands together. Like it will change anything. Like it could. 
Please forget me, I ask. Please forget me. Please stop thinking of me and pulling me back.
My first grave is not a comfort but I feel unsteady when I’m away. I leave and I leave but I cannot stay gone. I beg it to forget but I still remember. My first grave and all my deaths come back to the same place.
I always return and I cannot quite leave. I leave and leave but how much of me stays     behind?
My hands, clasped together in prayer or forgiveness; my eyes, wet and wide and unseeing; my mouth, overflowing but dry of words now that I’ve returned.
What stays? What calls me back? This first grave is the last is the only grave. Don’t I deserve     more?
I leave but I never find it. I leave but I can’t find it. I leave. I leave. I always try to leave.