Ashes Don’t Echo

for the man I was, for the girl I loved, and for the life that never came

I’m laying him down tonight —

the man who prayed

while bleeding in silence,

the boy who still believed

you might turn around.

He held on too long,

slept beside ghosts,

fed on hope like spoiled bread

because it was all he had left.

I’m not angry anymore.

I’m not waiting anymore.

I’m not alive in that world anymore.

You know who you are —

I loved you in ways

that rewrote my DNA.

But you buried me

while the ink was still wet

on our last heartbeat.

I screamed into your silence.

You called it peace.

But peace doesn’t feel

like being erased.

You don’t get to keep my name.

You don’t get to wear the ache

like a charm around your wrist.

You never mourned —

you replaced.

To the child we lost:

I carried you in poems,

in playlists,

in pain.

And I still don’t understand

how a heartbeat can vanish

and the world just keep turning.

But I’m done spinning.

Done chasing ghosts.

Done starving in the shadow

of a love that never fed me.

Tonight,

I burn the pages.

Not out of hatred —

but mercy.

Ashes don’t echo.

And I’m ready

for silence

that finally

feels like peace.

— Me