written 6/11/2026

i cannot breathe, i don't think.
that is to ask, did i ever know how to?
the cold dirt packed on top of my frail body
creates a sense of artifical warmth.
how long have i been here?
i don't remember.

i think i helped you dig this hole,
bruised knuckles desperately clawing at the earth.
i think i asked for it,
i think you gave me everything i wanted.


was i warm the last time you touched me?
how easy was it for you?
when you laid my body down, did i tremble?

trace my feeble corpse with your kind hands,
tell me of the beauty that remains.
what parts are yet to be touched?
could you still find it in yourself to love them?
there is a hole carved out of my right hip.

when you began to pack the dirt onto me, i think you smiled at me.
do you think of this night fondly?
it didn't hurt, i don't think.
the dirt tastes like bittersweet memories and unspoken truths.
i think the pressure will cure me if i let it.

there was a time i could feel my heartbeat
thrumming through the walls.
that sensation is long gone, as are you.
the earth has consumed me by now, i'm sure of it.
the bugs and dirt have become all i know.
i have grown used to not being able to breathe.