Ashes Dont Speak

 

Ashes Don't Speak

by Burn

There was a time I thought truth would heal me.
That if I just knew, if she just told me,
I could finally rest.
But the truth came,
and it didn't bring peace — only silence.

She spoke, finally.
Maybe not everything,
maybe just enough to stop me from falling apart.
But enough to know that what we had,
what I held on to…
had already been handed over to someone else
piece by piece
when I wasn't looking.

She says it wasn’t love.
She says she didn’t mean for it to happen.
She says it’s me she still feels for.

But why, then, did she orchestrate a world where I was the stranger?
Why did she cloak herself in stories so finely stitched
that even my instincts — loud as they were —
kept getting silenced?

Now I know.
But it doesn’t mean I’m free.

Her confessions don’t unlock the cage.
They decorate it.

And I’ve come to realise:
Closure is not something she can give me.
Closure, if it even exists,
has to come from the quiet decision
to stop waiting for what will never be restored.

I used to think
if we could just talk,
just find the rhythm again,
maybe we’d get another chapter.

But no —
Some stories end not with explosions,
but with slow fading echoes
and the ache of a name
you no longer know how to say out loud.

She shared too much of herself with someone else.
Not just her time —
but her spirit, her words, her laughter,
the very things that once built us.

And I’ve been left
to walk out of the fire alone.

Not angry.
Just burned.

So no, I won’t ask again.
I won’t trace timelines.
I won’t knock on doors she’s already closed behind her.

Her truth isn’t my closure.
And in this,
I choose to have none.

I carry the ashes now.
They don’t speak.
But they still burn.

– Burn