It was ironic, really
That she dug the very grave
she would lay them to rest in.
They had trampled her
with the weight of an elephant stampede.
Leaving her to die in misery and bitter hopelessness.
Choking out every bit of sense and sensitivity she had about her.
Including the parts that made her fiercely intriguing and nurturing.
(Arguably, the best parts.)
She buried them alive.
Covering them in heavy, cold dirt and darkness
like they had done to her. With not a single care
that burying things doesn’t always kill them.
Sometimes it gives them new life. New tenacity
to tackle what they didn’t take down before.