Beneath the pile.

If I was already dead I wouldn’t be speaking
my eyes wouldn’t be blinking
I’m not a ghost whispering in the background
while their corpse is rotting within the ground
I’m waving in front of you
and you’re looking through
as if my skin is transparent
should my frustration stay dormant
no I won’t crawl within a hole
to bring contentment within my foe.

Now I’m standing within dirt piles
grime isn’t my style
I wipe hands across my face
the dirt I can taste
and I hold the shovel above you
was that not a clue
that I could hold tools
you kept pushing
as if I was incapable of resisting
as I held the shovel above your head
now I kneel down and ask if you’re dead?

Not a sound
was found
and I thought this is over
as I pile the dirt to cover
and beneath the pile
I see nothing for awhile
and I think it’s done
I have won.

I go to turn away
my vengeance doesn’t stray
and I stop to come back to the spot
feeling happiness as you rot
sticking my foot upon your grave
once I was your pray
or was I always the predator
were we both enablers
in an instance I slip
as your hand have resurfaced with a tight grip
and I go down
I guess I’m stuck having your around.

Thanks for reading.
-Temperamentally Tina

Published by Tina

I am a mother that is passionate about early education and a person that relieves stress through art, and writing.

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