Grave Offering
by M. Allshouse
You dug up my grave—
the decaying form you knew I’d be.
You ridicule the rot,
but you came searching for me.
Whispered your reassurance
as you uncovered my body.
Promised not to flinch,
though you knew what you’d see—
battered.
bloody.
Each tilling of the soil
thrown over your shoulder,
tossing aside the safety
I’d learned to call home.
Did you think I was lying?
That I’d be laying there beautiful,
wrapped in silk
and tied with a bow?
You dug up my grave.
I did not ask you to.
You called yourself a necromancer,
skilled in raising the dead—
as if I’d rise up
to prove my worth.
And still you dig,
your spade sinking into my limbs
like if you go deeper,
I’m just a creature
hiding what you actually meant to unearth.
Grave Offering
by M. Allshouse
You dug up my grave—
the decaying form you knew I’d be.
You ridicule the rot,
but you came searching for me.
Whispered your reassurance
as you uncovered my body.
Promised not to flinch,
though you knew what you’d see—
battered.
bloody.
Each tilling of the soil
thrown over your shoulder,
tossing aside the safety
I’d learned to call home.
Did you think I was lying?
That I’d be laying there beautiful,
wrapped in silk
and tied with a bow?
You dug up my grave.
I did not ask you to.
You called yourself a necromancer,
skilled in raising the dead—
as if I’d rise up
to prove my worth.
And still you dig,
your spade sinking into my limbs
like if you go deeper,
I’m just a creature
hiding what you actually meant to unearth.