My Grief On Fire

You were something I never thought I'd have to lose.
But to keep you
would have meant forgiving the unforgivable.
And how do you forgive
someone who isn’t even sorry?
Not with anything but words.
Not where it counts.
Not where it changes anything.

You said the words.
God, you said all the right words.
Performative and hollow,
like a bell with no clapper—
ringing for show,
never for truth.

You spoke of repair
without lifting a finger.
You watched the walls collapse
and blamed the bricks.
But it was you.
It was always you.

Your hands,
your choices,
your sticky fingers
that took what wasn’t yours—
not just once,
but again
and again,
until there was nothing left to give
that wasn’t bruised.

You hurt everyone.
Every single one of us.
And still, you stood there,
wrapped in the smoke of your own destruction,
pretending you were choking
on someone else’s fire.

This is my grief on fire.

It is not clean.
It is not quiet.
It is blistered palms
and eyes that haven’t slept in weeks.
It is a scream I’ve swallowed too many times
finally clawing its way out.

You did this.

You.

And I am so,
so,
so,
so,
so,
so
sad.

I am ruined by this.
Shattered.
Scorched down to bone
by the heat of a truth
I begged you to meet me inside
but you refused.

You chose the lie.
You always did.

You looked into the faces of people you broke
and called yourself the victim.
You pointed fingers at everyone else
because accountability would’ve meant
doing something.
Being someone.
And you are neither.

I kept hoping.

God, I kept hoping.

That one day you’d show up
not with excuses
but with change.
That you’d say,
“I see it now.”
That you’d try.

But you never did.

And so this severing
isn’t a tantrum.
It isn’t drama.
It is survival.

This is final.
This is real.
This is the only way forward
with the kind of wound
you left behind.

You turned love into something sharp.
And now I carry the scar
as proof
that I tried.

And you?
You carry the match.

This is my grief on fire.
And it burns
so
badly.