It watches as your body rots, patient and still—waits for you to decompose into its thieving hands. It wants to claim what’s left of you.

It wants **you. **

It’s waits as the light fades from your eyes, as your skin turns pale. Maybe if you hadn’t taunted it, killed it, tortured it— you would’ve been spared. Set free? Maybe if you hadn’t hurt them they would’ve felt pity, shown mercy.

But every memory is getting harder to bury when the days pass by in the same way—same motions, same words, same exhausting paths.

Trapped.

They’ll tell you:

burn for them.

Bleed for them.

Kill for them.

Your pain is fuel—

for the worms,

for the critters,

for the soil,

and the watchers.

This is how it goes.

This is the way of life.

(part of elegy in dandelions)