Some heartbreaks don’t end—they ferment.
“Grave Work” is a poem I first wrote in the late months of 2024, as I was reflecting on a period in my life (2021–2022) marked by romantic disillusionment, and the quiet violence of love. It originally belonged to a manuscript titled Igniting the Void, which I have completed but haven’t shared publicly. Igniting the Void was the prelude to my debut manuscript, What Lies Beyond Me.
This version is reworked—more lyrical, a little more deliberate in its pacing—but the heart of it remains the same: rage that turns into mourning, and the absurd truth that even when we bury love in hopes of forgetting, it has a way of haunting us back to ourselves.
—
In the haze of rage, the shovel bit deep;
sweat blurred my vision—
my eyes bloodshot, exhausted,
and weeping in hues of crimson.
Mourning something I thought I birthed in tenderness—
wasting my ink on letters that bore the tip of my tongue.
Sonnets wasted on you—
and my warmth, the keeper of your thaw.
The last one to stand.
Roots split softly, cutting the seeds sown in defeat.
Dirt clung to my nails,
pleading for a heart still beating to be freed.
Each strike of the spade, grew harder, louder—
a breath silenced.
When the work was done I paused,
shaking like a leaf.
By sunrise, regret seeped in,
invisible to the eye—
heavy on the chin.
Grief—
fragile and relentless
poking hollows too small to reach.
Ravaging through steel—
until there was nothing left of us
but rotten Kodak negatives,
faint memories spread thin in the dusk.
So much effort to bury you—
but unrequited love
always unearths the dead.
