they piped the gray slurry into you to fill the bullet holes and the space where you used to be in your head, before blood loss choked it.
sometimes you feel it pressing at the back of this body's eyes. this is not your skin. you are not real. you are replacement.
the tag on your breast pocket says "pvt. let'aang", which is who they say you are. you remember like her and you sit in her skull. you are her.
her bright mind is only a puddle of gray dust on a far-away world, now. you saw the pictures.
memory is an instinct without a voice. it is reaching for a gun at your side and pulling the trigger, and when you do you get a birthday party or a funeral or a first kiss or nothing, not even thought--
the substance keeps limbs moving but does not warm them, squeezes the heart into beating.
at night you wake to blackness and feel nothing at all before, tentacular, you-it curls around the nerves in the corpse of pvt. iva let'aang.