I keep digging deeper, feel the grit under my nails, the flecks of earth on my face. How wide must I make it, how many feet down? There's just so much that needs to be buried here, trapped beneath the surface of the world. Maybe the damp and the darkness will smother all these things that live inside me. I can't give them room to crawl back out, mustn't let the weight be too light, or they will find me again. Sneak under the covers and pool beneath the sheets, where the whispers become roars and silence is no longer alive but in the furthest corners of my mind. I feel mad, out here in the dark, a mock villain. There is no explanation that could be given but that there were too many secrets piling up. Far too many to simply dust beneath the carpet or hide under the bed. They had become like people, like false-friends, voices so loud they'd reverberate within the walls of this room over and over again, warping until they became new thoughts, new secrets.
"Dig deeper," I say to myself, "keep digging."
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