I dig in the rot,
The sick earth that brands my skin.
My hands slide through slick mire
And pull clay from the depths.
I dig in rotten thoughts
That stick their barbs in my mind.
I pull at the memories,
As they spread, corrupt, infect.
I dig my nails into my arm.
The hole I’ve dug is deep,
Messy, and incomplete.
In it, I plant a seed.