You
burned me
down
to ash
and
then begged me
to
come back
as
if there wouldn’t be any scars
or
burn marks
where
you lit the match.
But
I just kept burning.
Nothing
put me out.
I
just kept burning
down
down
down
until
the ground
absorbed
the dust
that
was left.
There’s
not even space
for
flowers
or
a marker
or
anything
but
a shadow
of
the life
you
snatched
with
one scratch
against
the box.
There’s
nothing
to
show
the
damage done,
and
I’m not coming
back
no
matter what.
I’ve
had enough.
I’d
just rather be a memory.
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