Maybe I’m the Grave

Maybe I’m an anchor tied firmly round your neck, 
and I pull you down so quickly to the bottom of the ocean 
you don’t have time to register that you’re drowning 

Or maybe the anchor is wrapped round my own neck, 
and I’m already at the bottom of some ocean, looking up
wondering how long I have left of consciousness 
at the bottom of this pit, in the depths of this salt-water grave

Or maybe I am the grave
And maybe I’m waiting for the circle of crows 
and the claws of a black cat 
and the creeping snakes 
and the spiders 
to finish the job

Or perhaps I’m just waiting for this crushing loneliness 
to sprinkle those last bits of dust and grime and dirt 
over my face so they can blind me from all this living I refuse to do 

That’s it, I think: I am the grave. And also apathy

maybe