Gabrielle Bacon

the rain is pouring an old man sits on a bench in an open field and looks up at the sky he reaches for the shovel he begins to dig pondering his life, the failure that it is, he continues every thrust of the shovel into the ground becomes more spiteful pure hatred is spewing from his pores he digs and digs until he is satisfied every rainy day, the old man returns to dig for years, he continues to dig the ladder he brings along with him gets longer and longer with persistence, he refuses to cease this old man, full of hatred and discontent this old man, that digs a hole so deep you cannot imagine this old man, he is within me this old man, he controls me the emptiness I often succumb to can only be described as such a deep hole built with hatred, not for others but for oneself a deep hole that consistently gets deeper on rainy days, I watch as he digs I yell for him to stop, begging for mercy he does not hear me, he continues to dig I sob, I have no control he does not care, therefore continues to dig all that is left is me shallow, empty, dirty, lifeless the pills are worthless rocks, two or three I throw them into the hole, expecting fulfillment the old man returns it rains, and he digs, the rocks I have thrown disappear I’ve been hollowed, what can save me now?