Scythe.

And that's the story of how I became a slave to the memories that liked to visit without invitations and to the dreams that came at night to torment me. They pulled me down to the shadows and made me feel like I was living inside a Byron poem as if it was the only way to live. There were broken mirrors everywhere, and each reflecting piece showed something I'd rather forget, something I never wanted to even slightly think about ever again. But they acted like they knew. And they did. As they laughed at my face. As they repeated words that were sadly familiar to my eyes. To my broken heart.
I was challenged to forget them and I promised I would, I had to. Still, they were stronger than me and more in numbers. Still, they knew how to make me doubt everythind I had, how to make me bend to my knees and beg. But even though they break me, they also make me stout. And I shall defeat them. I shall drown them in my tears and asphyxiate each and every one of those little bitches that stole pieces of my life. They will suffocate in their sanctimoniousness and burn. Not in hell, for there exists no such thing, but in their own minds. For there is karma, and bad things await those who bad things have done.