You say my name like venom, as if you are not the snake coiled around your own throat.
You blame him, as if it wasn’t your hands that traced across my skin.
You blame me, but I played the role you gave me—perfectly.

Oh, to be gold, you say.
Perhaps you thought digging was the way to become worth something,
My mistake—I should have known the grave you dug for me would swallow you instead.

In the wind of your mistakes, I am the ashes of a burnt down home
Carrying the embers of what you made me,
Wishing to set you ablaze