*tw: graphic depictions of being buried alive basically, loneliness, EXTREME self hatred*
With each negative thought I have about myself, the pile gets heavier and heavier. I'm underground, almost six feet under, and I'm suffocating. Alone. I'm so alone, battling my insecurities in this claustrophobic cage of dirt. But it's okay.
It's okay because, as agonizing as it is to be suffering alone, I'm glad that no one else is by my side. I'm glad that no one else is here next to me, suffocating and suffering in self hatred and sadness.
Everyone's above this underground grave I've dug for myself, breathing in fresh air and feeling the sun on their skin. Everyone is up there, happy and okay. And they don't think twice as their feet come in contact with the earth.
Their feet thump across the grass above me everyday, smiles on their faces and places to be. Me? I'm drowning in dirt and darkness. But I'm glad. I really am glad.
I'm glad that nobody else has to go through this — being scared and sad and alone, struggling to breathe — and I would never want anyone to.
So I stay here, waiting. Waiting for my oxygen supply to run out. Waiting for the darkness to consume me. Waiting for my bad thoughts to shove me down those few remaining feet until I reach six. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Alone. (And, somehow, glad.)
YOU ARE READING
recycled poetry
Poetry❝i wish i was writing something special, but these words have been used before and there's no originality to it at all. i'm just reusing phrases until they're worn out, like musty library books or hand-me-down clothes.❞ from ❛hand-me-down poetry❜ i...
