yaz

You turned him into a story you could control, a body you could parade, a voice you could silence even after he was gone, and there is something so deeply vile in that, in the way you reached beyond his life and tried to claim his death too, as though he never belonged to himself at all. He was never what you said he was, never something assembled from ruin, never something meant to endure cruelty as though it were his purpose. He was a person who loved so openly it made him vulnerable to people who knew how to exploit it, and you mistook that openness for weakness, for permission, something to reshape into whatever narrative allowed you to sleep at night. But there is no rewriting what you did, no reframing that makes it anything other than what it was, a deliberate destruction of someone who trusted you, someone who deserved to be protected. He was someone who should have been allowed to exist without being reduced to a collection of scars you insisted defined him. And what makes it unbearable, what makes the anger sit so heavy it feels impossible to carry, is knowing that even now, even after everything, he would not have wanted this hatred directed at you.