GRAVE

 

I watch her.

I watch her die just a little more. 

Not with a bang, not with blood anymore, but with the quiet, torturous drip of time.

 I hear the screams that never leave her throat, see the tears that never make it to her eyes.

 She’s crumbling right in front of me, piece by piece, brick by brick. This house is her coffin, these walls her tomb.

And yet, she stays. She stays.

This is love," she says, as if love is supposed to break you into shards.

Love, Mother?

 This isn’t love. 

This is death, and you’re alive to feel every second of it.

Why don’t you leave? Why don’t you run?

Every day you stay here, you’re digging your own grave.

I see it.

I see you holding the shovel, the weight of it heavy in your hands.

It’s like you don’t even notice the dirt you’re piling on yourself,

Don’t even notice how it covers your feet, your legs, your chest,

Until it’s up to your throat, choking the life from you.

Your fingers touch the cold door

But you never twist the knob,

You never run, never scream,

You just wither like a dying leaf.

Your body bends, but you won’t break,

You won’t break,

Even though you’re already in pieces.

She’s building her own tomb. 

Every bruise she lets him leave on her skin is another nail in her coffin.

And I’m just standing here, watching.

Helpless.

Silent.

A child, standing on the edge of her mother’s grave,

Watching her bury herself alive.

And she doesn’t even fight it.

I want to scream at her, shake her, beg her to run. But she won’t listen.

She never listens.

She just lets it take everything from her, day by day. She lets it grind her down to dust.

I hate her for it.

I hate her for being weak.

For choosing to stay in this grave instead of fighting for the light.

I hate that she won’t run.

There’s dirt beneath your nails, Mother,

I see it.

You’re clawing at the earth, but not to escape,

You’re clawing deeper, burying yourself faster.

You could have fled, you could have fought,

Instead, you choose the grave.

The cold, damp grave that’s already calling your name.

You could have soared, but you drown.

You drown.

I’m terrified of her.

Terrified because she’s already gone and she doesn’t even know it.

There’s nothing left of her but a hollow shell that still breathes.

How can she keep walking through these halls like a ghost and pretend she’s still alive?

How can she keep looking in the mirror, seeing the bruises bloom across her skin like flowers of rot,

And not want to burn this place to the ground?

Does she even see me anymore?

Or am I just another shadow in this dying house, a ghost like her?

I feel it too, you know the weight of the dirt, the smell of the grave.

It’s not just her grave she’s digging. 

It’s mine.

The shovel is heavy,

I see you hold it, Mother.

You drag it behind you like a chain,

But you never drop it.

You never leave it behind.

You carry it with you, every day,

Like it’s a part of you now.

And the dirt is piling up, the grave is almost full,

But you won’t stop.

You keep digging.

You keep burying yourself.

And I’m sinking with you.

Why do women do this?

Why do they let themselves die so slowly, so quietly?

Why do they choose this slow suffocation, this slow, agonizing death,

Instead of walking away?

Instead of running?

Mumma.. do you even feel it anymore?

Do you feel the earth closing in around you, filling your lungs, suffocating you?

Or have you already gone numb?

You lie down in your grave like it’s a bed.

You close your eyes and pretend it’s comfort,

When all it is, is dirt.

Cold, heavy dirt.

I don’t know how much longer I can watch this.

It’s like watching her die, slowly, over and over,

And knowing that one day, she’ll just stop breathing altogether.

One day, I’ll wake up and find her in the ground, her body cold, her eyes empty.

But the truth is, she’s already gone.

She’s already dead inside.

The grave is deep now, Mother.

It’s so deep, I can barely see the bottom.

You’ve been digging for years.

I wonder how long it’ll take before you disappear into it entirely.

Before you vanish into the dirt and leave nothing behind but an empty hole.

And when you do, what will I do?

Will I keep digging, just like you?

I’m scared, Mother.

Scared that this is all there is.

That I’ll follow you into that grave, that I’ll carry the same shovel.

That I’ll end up buried just like you,

Choking on the same dirt, suffocated by the same silence.

But I won’t.

I can’t.

I won’t die in this house, in this tomb.

I’ll burn it to the ground before I let it bury me.