I Wrote This Instead of Screaming

I have a talent for graves. 
I can make a peace with any silence. 
Trace the contours of what's gone
like I was born knowing loss. 

I've watched the light bleed out. 
Felt it drain 
until there was nothing left. 

And still -
the spark. 

Small. 
Obnoxious. 
Persistent. 
A parasite with perfect timing. 
It crawls back into my chest 
the moment I go still 
long enough to be done.  

And I hate it for that -
for throwing matches 
into the grave 
I carved with both hands. 

It doesn't care 
how many times I've drowned it. 
Doesn't care 
how much I've lost. 

It keeps trying to ignite. 
To burn. 
To drag me 
back to a life 
that never once asked 
if I could bear it. 

Hope is the most dangerous thing I have. 
It keeps me alive 
out of spite -
because it remembers 
what I worked so hard 
to forget. 

Because even now - 
numb, gutted, finished - 
it sparks. 

And I hate it 
for that. 

And I'm so tired 
of following it 
through the dark.