We dig our graves with our fingernails,
imprinting the memory of the soil to them

to be able to claw our way back out again

when death wraps us around His teeth
and sinks them into our despairing necks,

people ask me;

“did you fight to the death?”

and I blink, not understanding the point
they are trying to make,

or else wondering if they are asking
to see the documented photos of my injuries,

“I would rather die!”
they say,

but I know how desperately
you want to stay alive

when a fist meets your face
and a hand smothers your mouth

and you can’t breathe

and you don’t believe in God,
but you pray anyway

Do. Not. Let. Me. Die. Here.

Please,

don’t

Death’s jaws will take you,
but you know that soil, now

and you can climb,
dear God girl, you can crawl

inch by inch

into the sunlight