I Dug My Own Grave

I dug my own grave

one bad decision at a time—

not all at once,

not dramatically,

just slowly enough

to call it living.

A drink here.

A lie there.

Another thing

I told myself

I’d fix tomorrow.

I kept throwing dirt

over warning signs,

burying the parts of me

that knew better,

that tried to speak up

before everything got this deep.

But I didn’t listen.

I called it coping.

Called it survival.

Called it anything

except what it was—

self-destruction

with softer language.

And now I stand here

looking down

at the hole I made,

realizing

no one pushed me into it.

That’s the hardest part.

Not the damage.

Not the regret.

The knowing.

Knowing my own hands

built this.

Knowing I became

the thing

I kept trying to outrun.

But maybe

that’s where change starts—

not in pretending

I’m innocent,

not in blaming the world

for every scar I carry—

but in finally

putting the shovel down.

Because if I dug this grave,

maybe I can still

climb out of it too.