irreversible

They lay flowers on an unmarked grave— 
silent, nameless, undated. 
Were you ever real? Or just an echo, 
a whisper: *"You were fated..."* 

Your story is a house on fire. 
Your words—just ash in my hand. 
I listened for a cry, but heard only 
smoke. And pain. And *"never again."* 

I don’t trust you. You’re no one— 
a shadow without proof. 
But you *ached*, and that was enough. 
We were kin, in truth. 

I bleed silently too, in the dark, 
where the mirror hisses: *"Are you worth it?"* 
I believed once. Now I’m just shards. 
You—the wound that won’t close. 

I won’t save you. Do I love you? No. 
But you were like distant music— 
half song, half scream, 
half beauty, half a ghost. 

I’m leaving. Not from lack of care, 
but from *"I can’t anymore."* 
No answers. Just this fractured prayer: 

*"Don’t cut. Don’t hate. Don’t bury yourself alive. 
Let something come—a voice that doesn’t wound, 
a book that holds you, a line that saves. 
Maybe then, you’ll want to stay."* 

If you were a lie, a fiction, a game— 
thank you. For a moment, 
I, who stopped believing, 
felt real again. 

I bleed silently too. 
And in silence, I let you go.