I was never yours to burn.

I planted hope in a barren field,

watched it grow crooked under a sun

that never stayed long enough to warm me.

You came like rain,

soft at first, then drowning—

filling my roots with promises

you'd already forgotten how to keep.

I wanted to give you everything,

even the parts of me that still belonged to the sky,

but you wanted more—

you wanted the seeds, the soil,

the air I breathed when I thought of freedom.

Now, I walk the rows of what's left,

an orchard of ash where nothing grows,

the scent of oranges lingering like a memory

I can't let go of,

sweet and bitter in the same breath.

I wonder if you even remember the taste

of what you took from me,

or if you've already moved on,

leaving me to pick through the remains

of what could have been whole.

I gather what's left,

fingers stained with the dust of dreams,

and whisper to the emptiness—

I was never yours to burn.