There are two graves—one I dug, and the other you did. Equally covered with the same amount of dirt, only unlike other graves, these don’t carry any roses or lilies, no pansies nor flowers of any kind. No, these grave are opposite from others in every way.

Problems tend to lead to yourself making wrong decisions, right? Everything is a choice. I could’ve chosen to not dig a grave so deep, but I did. Now I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life. The candle set atop won’t ever diminish. That taunting flame is a reminder to not make the same mistake twice. And the memory of myself ever being so foolish causes guilt to rise as far as the sun is away. It’s much like the heat of the sun—I can see it, I can feel it hot on my skin while my face turns a bright crimson, but I can’t reach out and touch it. It’s all in my head. It’s all a feeling, and it was from the start.

He, the other grave digger, was only trying to help. But in attempting to aid me in my struggles, he’d done something equally as horrible.

I know it seems selfish, and maybe it is, but I envy him. I have to live with my decision. He escaped his regret. He feels nothing now. Imagine feeling nothing? I wonder what that’s like.

Nothing feels like nothing feels like nothing. Does that make feeling “nothing” a feeling?

A hand suddenly extends to me. I lift my chin in shame, just making it out through the blur that is my tears. The person seeks only to help me. He sees I am in the depths of sorrow, of loss. I dip my head back down, though, only to hope he stays. But when I look back up again, he’s gone.

I suppose you can’t expect everyone to wait for you. Not that the person did anything wrong. He has a life. My life is… complicated. I live a loop of constant regret. I live with the weight of _both_ our graves.

How careless can someone be to leave you with their biggest mistake to carry on your shoulders?

My sadness is a testament to those who cast glances full of concern, suspicion, eyes that condem with one look.

One grave is a large enough load to carry. My hands are stained with dirt, wet granules that sink under my fingernails and smudge my face with shame. But _two_ graves. Two graves consume my whole being. They fill my body with filth so I cannot breathe. And not only that, but my eyes bleed tears of the blood of that which is not my own. I bleed for _him_. For the one who dug the other next to mine. Who’s candle is still burning, but only because I can’t seem to let it go out.

Things happen to be your fault more when someone you love is hurt. Most of the time it’s not you fault. I guess I’m still trying to figure that out.

One person in the midst of two, great burdens. If only there were two to share equal weight. I don’t even need anyone to take a half of the pain I carry—I would never wish them that plaintive pain I hold.

I just wish for one to stay, help, and not leave. I just need someone to listen, to understand.

Is that too much to ask?

These two graves haunt me. They have for a while now. All I ask is that two willing arms might set me upright when I crumble. I want those same arms to wrap around my waist and envelope me with a feeling of love, so the length of those waxy candles will finally melt away.

Two sets of easy eyes that won’t look upon my filth with judgement.

Two words spoken that I refuse to believe, that I may push away, yet cannot stop thinking about.

Have faith.

Keep trying.

Don’t quit.

I’m here.

I care.

How contradictory is it that I want someone, yet anytime a person tries to help, I take one step back?