By Phantasma


I’m slipping back into a state of consciousness, I’m gripping onto reality. It feels like I’m spinning in a vortex of hyperreality, these colors are so vivid and lovely. Why does no one visit me? Why is my grave so empty? Why does no one visit my grave anymore? This deep sadness weighed on my mind as my eyes fluttered open. I lay there silent for a moment, and it feels as if the tears are welling up over this; why will no one come to visit me? It seems as if hours go by when suddenly I am awakened by the thought that I am living. I shoot up in my bed, peering at the soft sunlight shining in through my window. I’m staring at my fleshy hands now, how peach. Whose grave was I sad over? I can still see the dead grass and dirt with a grave marker, no flowers, no name, nothing. I dreamt of nothing, just of this sad memory stuck inside my mind. I’m thinking that maybe someone visited me in my sleep, someone used my humanness to remember theirs. But who? A voice from the past? Or just a simple no one? Aren’t we all just simple no ones though? I sat up out of bed, and started to change into my clothes. I rushed out of the house as I began walking to the cemetery close to my home. I’m hoping to find a resolution there. The sun shone brightly today, the world seemed so alive and happy, who wouldn’t want to live in a world like this?

As I approached the cemetery I wondered if this was all for nothing; maybe that was just some strange dream filled with psychosis. I felt myself wandering through the rows of the deceased, almost every spot was littered with gifts and flowers. How sweet. It was so magnetic, it was as if I didn’t even have to look around for it. There it was. The spot from my “dream.” I walked towards it and every step felt heavy, and it feels like I’m back in the dream. The world seems rainy and bleak now as I’m almost there. Closer. Closer. I can see the name on the gravestone! It says—it says, “Lucille Roe” A chill shot up my spine so fast you’d think it was lightning. That’s my name. With eyes wide and my mouth gaping open, I didn’t know what to think. Here I am visiting the grave of someone who has the same name as me, born the same day with a different year, and died so long ago. Born September 13, 1885, and died on December 26, 1906.

I’m slipping back into a state of a deathlike persona. I’m waking up, and it’s all pitch black. Where am I? I can’t move. It smells awful. I can hardly breathe. I sit up and bang my head on something. OUCH. What is going on? I push up on some wood. Huh? What is? What is this? I’m all boxed in? I’M ALL BOXED IN? HOW DO I GET OUT? I’m screaming and banging my fists on the top of the coffin. Coffin. I’ve been buried. Alive. No, no, no, no, no. How do I get out? The fear and panic rushed into all parts of my body. I’m feeling hot. I’m screaming and banging and kicking, but no one is coming, no one can hear me... There is no escape from this. My ears are wet from the tears that slid into them. I don’t deserve to die this way. I don’t deserve to suffer this way. What did I ever do? Is that selfish to think? My eyes are closed, and I’m ready to be dead.

I open my eyes and it’s all bright around me, I’m staring at the bunches of grass my in fists and bloody knuckles. Wh-What? Warm tears and snot dripped all over my face to the ground. Am I going insane? Why did I think I was inside the ground, buried alive? Whose memory was that? I wiped my face with the sleeve of my olive green sweater and stood up. One of my nails was ripped off, and the blood was cherry red as it soaked into my sweater. I held my hands up and could see the wood chips and splinters under my nails. That was real. It was real. I swear it. What was that possession…

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Rachel Jacobs

I'm an escapist with a chameleon heart.

I write morbid or psychological horror and heartfelt poetry.

I feel v deeply.

@phantasma.philosophy ~ Instagram for my poetry.

See all posts by Rachel Jacobs