Burning the memories
Isn't that easy
When I burn things, a piece inside me dies. I tell myself it’s just paper, just ink, but I know better. Letters carry weight. They remember what I tried to forget. When the fire takes them, it doesn’t just erase words, it erases the proof. Proof that something happened. Proof that I felt deeply and meant it. Memories don’t disappear quietly, they cling to the smoke, settle in my chest, and leave behind an absence that feels deliberate. Burning is supposed to be cleansing, but it’s also a kind of surrender. Each letter I lose takes a version of me with it, and what remains has to learn how to exist without evidence.