The silence. The turning away. The way they spoke my name like it was something bitter in their mouths—or worse, not at all. They made the burial look like mercy, but I knew what it was: an erasure. A quiet undoing. They called it consequence. I called it betrayal.
I wasn’t ready.
And yet, the earth took me in.
At first, I fought it. I clawed against the weight. I screamed in a language only the dead understood. No one heard. No one came. There’s something hollow about being forgotten while your heart is still beating. Something feral. Something cold.
But the dirt... the dirt didn’t judge. It simply held me.
I lay there. Long enough to forget the shape of light. Long enough to imagine that maybe I’d deserved it—this burial, this becoming no one. I wilted inward, until even my thoughts stopped making sound. But what no one tells you is that seeds don’t bloom in the open. They rupture in darkness. Quietly. Painfully.
I cracked.
Split wide, without ceremony.
No miracle music. No divine intervention. Just the slow, terrible work of becoming something else. Becoming more than what they left behind.
I wish I could tell you I knew I’d rise. That I had some noble defiance in my chest. I didn’t. I just couldn’t stop existing, even when it hurt. Maybe that’s all resilience is. Not strength—but refusal. Refusal to stay broken. Refusal to stay buried.
My roots reached for something they didn’t have a name for. Not revenge. Not justice. Just light. Just the barest pulse of maybe.
And I rose.
Not triumphant. Not clean. I was still covered in yesterday’s grief. Still bleeding from the places they tried to seal shut. But I was upright. Alive. A new shape entirely.
I am not who they buried.
That version of me—the soft one, the pleasing one, the one who bent herself into something acceptable—is gone. I shed her like old skin beneath the soil. And what grew back? Something wilder. Hungrier. Truer.
So bury me again, if you must.
Just know: I’ll come back.
Every time.
With deeper roots.
And thorns.
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