Buried alive, where I belong, I close my eyes and try not to think of those who are trying not to think of me. I hold my breath and try to stay quiet, but thoughts keep crossing my mind and I shudder silently, my head knocking very softly on the wooden roof of the coffin. I know I need to be down here, six feet and counting as the dirt is piled up above me, holding my breath and only hearing the heartbeat in my ears and the occasional ragged gust of air I have to release. It's harder for me to hear them working up there but with every shovel-full I'm more and more compelled to reach out and smash my fists against the ceiling, roar and thrash and scream until someone can't ignore the sounds and digs me out.
But, I know and they know it would be counter-intuitive, it would do nothing but harm, I know this better than anyone, which is why I'm down here. It doesn't stop the panic though. The loneliness, the terror, the longing, the dissatisfaction. Shovels above and I clench my teeth, grin