Death—
the easiest cure to everything.
Every pain.
Every wound.
Every drop of blood
I spilled when I wasn't enough.

Every word that cut,
every memory that stayed,
every moment I begged the world to stop hurting.

It's so easy to die—
all at once.
But most days,
we die slowly,
quietly enough
that no one notices.

We smile.
We laugh.
We disappear,
a little more each time.

And when I finally go,
they’ll burn me beneath wood and smoke,
and forget.
Everything I carried—
gone.
To most,
I was just another sad story.
Just another silence.

But the ones who truly saw me,
they watched it happen—
day after day,
minute by minute.
They saw my eyes go hollow.
They saw joy bleed out of me,
until all I had left
was a heart too tired to beat.