Out of the Box

I crept on tip-toe, in the dark of the night, to the grave of all of my sorrows.

Falling to my knees upon the frozen ground, I sobbed in silence.

My body convulsed with need to shed itself of the misery and distress that my heart and mind had endured.

Stubborn to the end, I lay prone upon the grave, digging my fingers into the earth beneath me.

I clenched fistfuls of the rich dirt and held it to my chest, as if I could somehow become a part of it, absorb it into my flesh.

My soul ached with the weight of a thousand agonies as I struggled with myself in the darkness.

I want. I want. I need. I cannot bear one more moment of this torment. This undeath.

I pull myself to my knees and claw at the earth, tunneling a gaping hole, desperate, craving, mad.

I continue to scratch at the cold earth, ripping my nails, and bloodying my hands from jagged rocks, until my eyes light upon the rotting coffin I lay upon.

And now I sit here, panting, covered in the dirt I have buried myself in, and bleeding. I stare my undeath in the eyes. I want. I want. I need. I cannot bear one more moment of this torment. This undeath.

I’m going to do it. I’m going to open it. Tonight. I’m going to drag myself from out of this box. Now.

I cannot. I will not.

And so, calmly, numbly, I rake the earth over the hole I have dug to my coffin and stand, silent, over the grave of all my sorrows.

By L.E.

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