Teach me to run, I'll find my feet. Buried in mud, I cannot leave. Why would you bring me back here? Everything you touch turns into shit. What a strange thing to share with "friends", you call them friends, convenient. But is it true? Let me explain; you've got it wrong. Acting too fast, you've got it wrong. I don't want to go there with you. Everything you see turns into stone, so let our eyes meet first. And I'll embrace the weight covering my eyes. And now, my eyes have found. Dirt fills my lungs, it feels so familiar. I've been buried before, but it's so much harder to claw through the dirt when the woman behind you has claws in your back, pulling you back down. It's all for you, and you can bare it. Then again it doesn't matter if you make it. I'd lend a shovel but I just don't care. I just don't care if you make it. I can feel its crushing weight coming down on me. Like a thousand tons. The dirt fits your smug red face. A coffin will be in her place. You can be the dirt. Six feet deep is not enough for what you did. Six feet deep is not enough, I'll make a new family with the worms. You've got it wrong. That's not my grave. Kill me softly. The worms make haste at night. The worms make me home.