the shovel line
hate? no. i don’t hate.
if i really did, you’d know.
i’d let you dig your own grave first.
let you throw the dirt, pat it down, climb inside thinking you’d found safety.
and when you tried to claw your way out, gasping, desperate?
that’s when i’d swing.
shovel across the skull, one drag of the cigar,
and then i’d move on without a second glance.
because it’s never about rage.
it’s about correction.
you bury yourself — i just make sure you stay put.
and somewhere in the dark, the clown’s laughter would be shaking the walls, tears streaming, joy unhinged, because he saw it all before the first shovel of dirt ever hit the ground.
🐀🔥
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