JUST DONT HAND ME THE SHOVEL
Bury It Next To Me
Do you feel its heaviness? This examination, a crucible of affection or fidelity — is it merely as it appears? Or does my mind play tricks, weaving convoluted narratives of reality? I find myself observing, not reflecting, preferring to abandon rather than cherish what's interred beside me. The sting at the tip of my tongue is relentless, not attributable to any single entity, and certainly not you. You are not the reason my tongue fumbles, unable to sculpt the words that are exhumed each night on my bedside table.
My queries hang in the air, a specter of silence, echoing my internal turmoil. I’ve received what I asked for – a solitary spade – a tool not for burial, but for excavation. You are not interred beside me, but I fear that this silence, this pretense of nonchalance, is dragging us both into the soil we've become too comfortable resting upon.
The weight I speak of is not of unspoken words, but a dense tapestry of repressed emotions. A Pandora’s Box nestled within the confines of my heart, its content obscured, and its potency underestimated. Each unsaid sentiment, every muted emotion, piles up like sediment, creating layers of unexpressed feelings as dense and heavy as bedrock.
This excavation, it's not of you, but of me. With each passing moment, I unearth another layer of myself, another facet of my emotion I had chosen to bury, mistaking silence for strength, suppression for loyalty. As I stand on the precipice of this excavation, I begin to realize that my strength does not lie in burying, but in exposing these layers, in confronting these emotions. This is not a tale of burial, but of unearthing, of feeling the sun on my face and letting the wind carry away the dust of my long-buried truths.
Do you feel its heaviness? This examination, a crucible of affection or fidelity — is it merely as it appears? Or does my mind play tricks, weaving convoluted narratives of reality? I find myself observing, not reflecting, preferring to abandon rather than cherish what's interred beside me. The sting at the tip of my tongue is relentless, not attributable to any single entity, and certainly not you. You are not the reason my tongue fumbles, unable to sculpt the words that are exhumed each night on my bedside table.
My queries hang in the air, a specter of silence, echoing my internal turmoil. I’ve received what I asked for – a solitary spade – a tool not for burial, but for excavation. You are not interred beside me, but I fear that this silence, this pretense of nonchalance, is dragging us both into the soil we've become too comfortable resting upon.
The weight I speak of is not of unspoken words, but a dense tapestry of repressed emotions. A Pandora’s Box nestled within the confines of my heart, its content obscured, and its potency underestimated. Each unsaid sentiment, every muted emotion, piles up like sediment, creating layers of unexpressed feelings as dense and heavy as bedrock.
This excavation, it's not of you, but of me. With each passing moment, I unearth another layer of myself, another facet of my emotion I had chosen to bury, mistaking silence for strength, suppression for loyalty. As I stand on the precipice of this excavation, I begin to realize that my strength does not lie in burying, but in exposing these layers, in confronting these emotions. This is not a tale of burial, but of unearthing, of feeling the sun on my face and letting the wind carry away the dust of my long-buried truths.