I found myself buried in her ashes,
when I burned her,
when love turned to dust in my hands.
I couldn’t breathe.
I suffocated, again and again.
I clawed at my own chest,
begged for the air to come back,
but it never did.
I beat myself,
prayed to die,
not to suffocate
but to end this weight inside me.
But death never came.
Breath never came.
Smile never came.
So I raised the gun at her.
My hands trembled.
My heart cracked like old glass.
But I pulled the trigger.
Not because I wanted to,
but because love can be that cruel,
because sometimes saving someone
means breaking yourself beyond repair.
She bled.
But I bled more.
I left her there,
breathing, hurting
but I was already gone.
Then you came.
And you watched.
You didn’t ask.
You didn’t cry.
You just took the gun.
You didn’t wound me.
You didn’t leave me bleeding.
You killed me.
And I wonder,
was it ever love,
or was I just holding onto
the slowest way to die?