Digging My Grave

I always start out with the best of me.

Let you see the good, with none of the bad.

Because once I finally show my true self, you’ll leave for good.

As my mask falls, another shovel full of sand gets tossed back.

I stopped hiding my true feelings from you, and now you pity me.

Another shovel full of sand.

I told you a single story of my long and wretched past, and your eyes cloud with guilt.

Another shovel full of sand.

I can practically hear your thoughts. “Oh, I got the broken one…”

The one who wants someone who doesn’t see her as a project, or something to be ‘fixed’.

Another shovel full of sand.

Why is it so easy to love me, but easier to run away?

Why is it so hard to understand how my mind works, how fearfully I live, just waiting to be accepted by somebody.

Another shovel full of sand.

“I love you,” until I get to know the real you, and now I’m no longer sure.

The story of my life, as one by one, the people around me vanish.

Another shovel full of sand.

My arms grow heavy, my legs shaking, struggling to dig deeper, to empty out this hole I will soon be laid to rest in.

As I open up to you, my shovel gets buried deep into the soil, and as your eyes widen and I feel you begin to pull away, I toss the sod over my shoulder onto the pile behind.

All I smell and taste is this sand, it filters through my every sense, coating my lungs and throat with thick panic.