I had fallen into the grave many times
And it always tore away a part of me each time I crawled out.
It wasn't my laughter at first,
I shamefully can't recall what was plucked from my soul initially.
But all I recall was when I realised
That the jar I stored my tears had multiplied.
And I had never bought any extra jar.
And then the grotesque shadows
That always looked like tiny mirrors when I stared into them,
Seemed to take the form of the figures I pitied when younger.
I never knew I had grown used to the many jars.
But I knew I had seen it as a part of me.
Perhaps I hadn't realised what that truly meant.
For when I numbly fell into the grave
And I caught sight of other people falling into it with me,
No new jar appeared again.
And although it was quite plain that that wasn't the case for them,
Not a breath of despair was released from my pale lips.
It may have been relief for not being alone,
Then perhaps the shadows in my house would have always been selfish.
Or it may have been that I truly have accepted the grave as my second home.
That I know not a thing of what I've become,
Because even the shadows in my house can't seem to know its own form.
