Memory is not kind. It does not soften the edges of the past, nor does it fade into silence. It lingers, like old scars tracing the map of who we used to be. And though flesh may forget, the bones always remember.
They remember the weight of every battle fought, the ache of every loss swallowed in silence. They remember the nights when grief curled itself into the ribcage and refused to leave.
They remember the names whispered into the dark, the hands that once held them, the ones that let go.
I have shed more selves than I can count, left behind versions of me like abandoned houses—roofs caving in, windows shattered, ghosts still pacing the floors. I have tried to walk away, to let time erode the ruins, but the bones do not let go. They carry the wreckage, the echoes, the unfinished goodbyes.
Some days, I feel them groaning under the weight, creaking like old wood in a storm. Some nights, they hum with the stories I no longer tell. And in the stillness, I hear them whisper: “We do not forget. We do not forgive. We do not let go.”
Bones don’t forget, and bones don’t forgive. A bone will wake you from your deep slumber on the Day of Judgment.
— Sadia Hakim
Because what the bones remember is not just the past. They remember the price paid, the blood spilled, the promises broken. And long after the mind tries to rewrite history, the bones stand as proof—unshaken, unyielding.
Perhaps that is why they are the last thing left of us when all else has turned to dust.
Even when the body crumbles to dust and the weight of existence is long forgotten, the bones will remain—silent sentinels of every war waged beneath the skin. They do not bend to time, nor do they surrender to forgetting.
When the world has stripped you of your name, when even memory unravels into nothingness, a single bone will bear witness to all that you were. And from it, you will rise again—because some truths refuse to be buried, some burdens defy decay.
Because what the bones remember cannot be undone. And because bones are not as forgiving or merciful as our hearts and souls.
Bones don’t forget, and what they remember is haunting.
—s.h.Ali
— Sadia Hakim // Cosmapoetica (Astropoetica ve Sciopoetica) Series // what the bones remember is truly haunting