the palms of her hands
are calloused
from the constant
digging.

she is
digging a hole,
running on empty.

as she falls to her knees,

her fingertips
are enveloped in
the cool earth,
cooling the blisters
and bruises.

carefully,
she climbs inside.

and as the cavern fills up
with rainwater,

she feels her swollen tongue
and the rug burn on her skin
and the acid in her throat,

and she reaches for the comfort
of her shirtsleeves.

the grit
of cough syrup
and mud
between her teeth
makes her gag

over the patter
of rain,
she can hear a shovel
against rock.

another person
digging a hole,
but into the rocky portion
usually reserved for those
with nothing
left.

and so out she climbs,
cradles the digger
in her arms
and fills her hole
with flower petals,
dropping the lost soul
inside

and she wraps her fingers
around the soaked piece of wood
and metal

and groans with that familiar sound
of metal on rock

as she resumes
what they left behind.