In the minds of the broken, there lives a graveyard–something weathered and overgrown.
Like many graveyards, it is full of love for what once was. But deeper still, in the mind of
someone truly broken, the scene takes on a different perspective. The headstones here do
not stand separate and solemn; one can only describe this view as a true state of tragedy,
neglected and dishevelled, as though memory itself had been buried beneath soil and time,
hidden in a place where to forget is merely an illusion.
Among these stones is one that stands apart. Others had been decorated with the past,
vines and moss tangled, making each one now beyond recognition. All the graves bear the
wear of time–faded markings, crumbling stone, the faint aura of former grief…except for one.
This headstone is different. It is new. Clean. Untouched by time. The inscription is fresh, the
edges of the carving so sharp that tracing them with your finger would draw blood. However,
in these graves, there is nothing of flesh, nor bone, nor cartilage beneath the clay.
Only words. Some were entire sentences. Words spoken in anger or desperation, and words
this soul had vowed never to say again. They were plunged into the dirt like seeds that
would never sprout into healing, only into silence. Each syllable, laid down, aided by a
shovel weighing as much as regret. Not heavier than hatred, nor lighter than sorrow.
Beyond this broken mind, the world remained indifferent and loud.
Within this hemisphere, this neglected region of thought, all was still. This cemetery of
language remained undisturbed, not here to be remembered…but because forgetting had
proven impossible.
One plaque bore the title “I never want to see you again.” Mold covered a large majority of
the stone, its edges were rough but the words remained legible. Harsh and final, yet echoed
a hidden plea. Vines curled around the base as if trying to pull it into the dirt. Like time itself
couldn’t bear to see the statement. It was the kind of phrase with the atmosphere of fire.
Something said in the heat of a conversation, something that could not be retracted no
matter the apologies that followed. Heartbreak and fury exhaled in the same breath.
Other headstones whispered more bitter sentiments. “You ruined everything,” painted in
cheerful strokes of cruel irony. Like this had been said in jest, though it wasn’t received that
way. Another said “You’re just like them.” Letters etched in deep, jagged lines which seemed
as if they had been scratched in by fingernails, not tools.
Now this new headstone held no sharpness, only a quiet yearning for something softer than
what it came from. One word, it read, “help.”
It did not accuse. It did not scream. Not brimming with rage but exhaustion, and acceptance.
A last desperate attempt to save themselves. Now buried.
Because sometimes, the deepest wounds are marked not by screams, but by words we
say–and no one hears.