𝐵𝓊𝓇𝓎 𝐼𝓉 𝒟𝑒𝑒𝓅𝑒𝓇

I carried my heart where the black roots grow, past gallows hill where the cold winds blow. No moon above me. No saint ahead. Just a spade in my hand... and a wish... to be deaaaaad. The witch wore black with a silver thread, a crown of thorns on her lowered head. She walked where the crooked willows weep, to bury the thing that would never sleep. She opened the earth with an iron blade, beneath an elm where the worms had prayed. One foot down, then two, then three— far enough from memory. She wrapped her heart in a widow's veil, sealed it tight with a rusted nail. But under the cloth came a stubborn sound: Thum... thum... thum... from under the ground. Deeeeeeper... bury it deeeeeeper... Below the root and the raven's nest, below the bones that were never blessed. Past buried teeth and a bridal stone, where grief grows fat when it's left alone. Cover the chamber with clay and lime. Give every shovelful another crime. Let earth eat blood, let darkness start— but something is beating... inside her heaaaaart. She dug till dawn had forgotten her name, till her palms split red and her fingers became ten little branches of blood and grime, scratching their way through the ribs of time. She passed a lock with its ribbon still blue, a jawbone grinning as if it knew. “Be still,” she hissed to the hole below. “I gave you death. Now let me go.” Then out of the pit, impossibly low, came one dull knock... then another... sloooooow. Deeeeeeper... bury it deeeeeeper... Under the coffin, under the clay, under the place where the lost ones pray. Sink it beneath every nameless guest, beneath the earth's cold, cavernous chest. Pack it with salt. Seal it with stone. Leave it to rot in the dark alone. She climbed from the graaave— then froze in the raaain. The beating had followed her... up through the veeeeeins. So she returned... No lantern. No shoes. No prayer. Only the spade... and her long black hair. She dug through the midnight, through gravel and bone, through layers of darkness that should not be known. Down where the roots had no memory of rain. Down where the dead had forgotten their pain. Down where no worm dared enter or start. And there... in the hollow... she found... her heaaaaart. Not rotten. Not sleeping. Not withered. Not still. It pulsed in the darkness with terrible will. And carved in the soil, where no hand could have been: DIG. DEEPER. WITHIN. Deeeeeeper... bury it deeeeeeper... Past every grave that the graveyard keeps, past where the oldest darkness sleeps. Under the under, below the below, to places even the buried won't go. She tore at the earth till her fingernails broke, till dirt filled her lungs every time that she spoke. Then the pit gave a shudder. The black earth split. And something beneath her... answered... it. Now there's a hole where the black roots creep, a stair through the earth where the dead don't sleep. No marker. No cross. No body. No stone. Just steps into darkness... descending... alooooone. And deep in the hollow, far under the dirt, the witch keeps digging... beneath... her own... heaaaaart. Thum... ... thum... ... deeeeeeper.