You are digging your own grave, girl.
And I will not stop you.
Here—take my hand.
Not to pull you out,
but to hand over the shovel.

What will you do with it?
Claw your way back to the surface?
Or bury another truth beneath the soil?
That’s your game, isn’t it?
Covering lies, hiding secrets,
packing dirt over everything rotten
and praying no one notices the smell.

But the truth is not dead.
The truth does not rot quietly.
It breathes.
It writhes.
It scratches at the coffin until the earth splits open,
and when it does,
you cannot silence it.
You cannot chain it.
You cannot **** it.

So dig, girl.
Dig until your hands bleed.
Dig until your arms break.
Bury every truth you fear.

But remember this—
a grave is not only a hiding place.
It is a trap.
And one day, when the earth swallows you whole,
no one will hear you scream.

And me?
I will not throw you a rope.
I will not lend you a hand.
The only thing I’ll give you…
is the dirt.
So you can bury yourself
alongside the truth you tried so hard to ****.