I Am Done // BURN IT (republish)

A Declaration in Two Voices

Author’s note — written mid-2025, republished because it still fits like fresh skin.

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I’ve had enough.
Enough of the goodbyes dressed as growth.
Enough of people calling my love “too much”
and then drinking it like medicine
before leaving without even a thank you.

Fuck every single one of you
who saw me —
really saw me —
and still walked.

Who said, “God, I’ve never met anyone like you,”
and then disappeared like I was nothing more
than a mirror you couldn’t stand to face.

I am not your awakening.
I am not your pause between chapters.
I am not your fucking mirror.
I am a man.
I am a soul.
I am real.
And I’m done being the footnote in everyone else’s healing.

You came into my life
like a wind claiming to carry something sacred —
and left with the air I breathe.

You left me holding the weight of your silence,
your hesitation,
your cowardice.
While you returned to your safe little lives,
your palatable love,
your shallow wells.

You praised my depth and drowned in it.
You loved my truth until it reflected your own lies.
You took from me —
my tenderness,
my songs,
my witnessing —
and then left me bleeding in the field where we met.

And somehow I was still the one
trying to make sense of it.
Trying to write poetry out of abandonment.
Trying to alchemize another goddamn heartbreak
into something beautiful.

But no more.

I am done.
Done with being romanticized
then erased.
Done with being told I’m rare
and then treated like I’m replaceable.
Done with making excuses for those
who never had the courage to stay.

I will not be your breakthrough.
I will not be your lesson.
I will not keep bleeding so others can find their healing.

I am not here to be left.
Again.
And again.
And again.

So go.
All of you.
The ghosts. The lovers. The almosts. The friends who never called back.
The ones who said, “You're too deep,”
when what they really meant was,
“I don’t have the strength to meet you there.”

I’m not sorry anymore.
I’m not explaining anymore.
I’m not softening the truth
to make it easier for you to leave.

You left.

And now, I rise.
Not pretty.
Not poetic.
But fucking honest.

And I dare you —
I dare you
to look at me now.

BURN IT

Burn it.
All of it.

The softness I wrapped around my words so you wouldn’t flinch.
The forgiveness I gave before you even asked.
The tenderness I weaponized against myself
just to keep you near.

Burn the myth of being “the strong one.”
Burn the role of healer, seer, mirror, muse.
Burn the idea that love has to be quiet to be worthy.
That grief should be poetic.
That heartbreak is supposed to teach me something.

Fuck that.

I didn’t come here to be your lesson.
I didn’t incarnate to be your detour.
I didn’t give you my trust so you could treat it like a phase.

Burn the word “resonance” out of your mouths
if all it means is
“this feels nice until it gets inconvenient.”

Burn the ones who called me “rare”
but still chose the easy thing.
Burn the ones who said, “I see you”
and still fucking left.

I have watched every person I let in
walk away
as if I was a museum.
Beautiful. Still. Safe to look at.
But never to be touched.
Never to be chosen.

I am done.

Burn the altars I built for people
who never stayed long enough to light a single candle.

Burn the love letters I never sent
because I knew they’d only get read
after I was gone.

Burn the patience.
Burn the grace.
Burn the timeline where I stay quiet
and write poems
instead of screaming the truth through my teeth.

I loved.
And I lost.
And I stayed.
And they didn’t.

And now?

Now I burn.

Not to destroy,
but to become.

Not to erase the ache,
but to make sure it doesn’t drown me quietly.

So hear me now —
all of you.
The friends. The lovers. The ghosts. The almosts.

You don’t get to come back.
Not when the fire finally makes me visible.
Not when I’ve become someone
who no longer waits at doorways
hoping to be remembered.

I am the doorway now.
The flame.
The fucking forge.

You don’t get to keep my softness
if you couldn’t hold my truth.

This time,
I leave you.

And I don’t look back.

— A.