I have (never) crawled out of graves (like this)
i have never crawled
out of a grave before
like this.
don’t get me wrong, i have
crawled out of graves, and
mine too
just not like this.
before, the earth was always soft above the coffin
i let it roll inside as i pushed
sometimes choking on the shirt
i had tied into a knot above my sweaty hair.
but soft, crumbly dirt rolling onto my bare stomach
finding skin through the worn-out slits of
already dirty denim, mounting between
my legs and stealing space, meant
there was barely any room
to leave things behind.
oh i still left some, left crumbles
of my own, let them mix
with the dirt. be enclosed in the wood.
no one would know.
no one did know.
those times i buried
many things. my fear, my
disobedience.
expectations.
love.
though that one i couldn’t bury whole.
it wasn’t fingers around my throat, not often.
it was air getting thin inside the wooden frame
it was i’ll be right outside but that one time
you’d had time to get coffee.
sometimes i tried, i tried the first times. later
but we’ll be burned. and as i said that i knew
it wasn’t a real objection, i knew
what i had to do. at some point burning had started
to feel like a comfort.
it had become pleasure in knowing
that it would all go up in flames then.
nothing to bury, then.
no breath burning in my guts, then.
i haven’t forgiven, and i never, never will.
nobody knows. hell, sometimes i think
i don’t know, so used to keeping
my mouth shut and a wall up.
and the truth is, it’s hard to chip away something
so fucking big. i know it should be
a one man job but god it doesn’t
feel like one.
i wish he hadn’t guessed that one thing right. i wish
that obsessed bastard hadn’t
taught me how to crawl out.
i wish someone had told him not to bother.
he didn’t have to, did he?
hell taught me everything for that.
i have crawled out of graves (hell would've done the job for him)
out of a grave before
like this.
don’t get me wrong, i have
crawled out of graves, and
mine too
just not like this.
before, the earth was always soft above the coffin
i let it roll inside as i pushed
sometimes choking on the shirt
i had tied into a knot above my sweaty hair.
but soft, crumbly dirt rolling onto my bare stomach
finding skin through the worn-out slits of
already dirty denim, mounting between
my legs and stealing space, meant
there was barely any room
to leave things behind.
oh i still left some, left crumbles
of my own, let them mix
with the dirt. be enclosed in the wood.
no one would know.
no one did know.
those times i buried
many things. my fear, my
disobedience.
expectations.
love.
though that one i couldn’t bury whole.
it wasn’t fingers around my throat, not often.
it was air getting thin inside the wooden frame
it was i’ll be right outside but that one time
you’d had time to get coffee.
sometimes i tried, i tried the first times. later
but we’ll be burned. and as i said that i knew
it wasn’t a real objection, i knew
what i had to do. at some point burning had started
to feel like a comfort.
it had become pleasure in knowing
that it would all go up in flames then.
nothing to bury, then.
no breath burning in my guts, then.
i haven’t forgiven, and i never, never will.
nobody knows. hell, sometimes i think
i don’t know, so used to keeping
my mouth shut and a wall up.
and the truth is, it’s hard to chip away something
so fucking big. i know it should be
a one man job but god it doesn’t
feel like one.
i wish he hadn’t guessed that one thing right. i wish
that obsessed bastard hadn’t
taught me how to crawl out.
i wish someone had told him not to bother.
he didn’t have to, did he?
hell taught me everything for that.
i have crawled out of graves (hell would've done the job for him)
i have never crawled
out of a grave
like this.
the air stale, smelling of the earth,
i have no memory of being buried here,
of being placed back together.
feels like thirty years burning but
here i am, intact, better than ever.
this time i don’t cover my eyes
with the already soiled shirt,
i want to feel the dirt when i force it to move
above the coffin lid and i hold my
breath, clawing, suffocating, not dying but
expecting nothing, until a soft breeze
touches the tips of my fingers.
the air is hot, it makes patterns in the
horizon, the sign on the door says
closed but on the other side it says
open and the road is a kenopsic place
lonely, abandoned, loaded. i lift my shirt
to see the scars across my chest
and notice a mark on my shoulder. scares me
shitless. it says someone was here
and left the door open.
no, i have never crawled
out of a grave like this.
younger, i learned not to expect
anyone outside the casket, but the
dirt shoveled above soft, meant
i had just been left there.
now my throat is dry and parched
and i know i have been dead.
someone raised me, left a calling-card
yet with no address. went inside my skin
now it’s prickling like the static noise
rising from the scathing pyre i thought
i had burned my dreams in.
turns out i only left them underground
for safekeeping.
getting out was never the hard part,
not exactly. it was getting out and seeing
only an open road waiting. but
you came in, now you won’t get
rid of me that easy. i know something’s
missing. something’s missed. now,
i’m a pessimist, but after all these years
i’m told angels exist.
i have never crawled out of a grave like this (after all these years i'm told that angels exist)
out of a grave
like this.
the air stale, smelling of the earth,
i have no memory of being buried here,
of being placed back together.
feels like thirty years burning but
here i am, intact, better than ever.
this time i don’t cover my eyes
with the already soiled shirt,
i want to feel the dirt when i force it to move
above the coffin lid and i hold my
breath, clawing, suffocating, not dying but
expecting nothing, until a soft breeze
touches the tips of my fingers.
the air is hot, it makes patterns in the
horizon, the sign on the door says
closed but on the other side it says
open and the road is a kenopsic place
lonely, abandoned, loaded. i lift my shirt
to see the scars across my chest
and notice a mark on my shoulder. scares me
shitless. it says someone was here
and left the door open.
no, i have never crawled
out of a grave like this.
younger, i learned not to expect
anyone outside the casket, but the
dirt shoveled above soft, meant
i had just been left there.
now my throat is dry and parched
and i know i have been dead.
someone raised me, left a calling-card
yet with no address. went inside my skin
now it’s prickling like the static noise
rising from the scathing pyre i thought
i had burned my dreams in.
turns out i only left them underground
for safekeeping.
getting out was never the hard part,
not exactly. it was getting out and seeing
only an open road waiting. but
you came in, now you won’t get
rid of me that easy. i know something’s
missing. something’s missed. now,
i’m a pessimist, but after all these years
i’m told angels exist.
i have never crawled out of a grave like this (after all these years i'm told that angels exist)