when I fade you burn

You wanted me to vanish, so I did — but ghosts don’t die clean. Every silence you built around my name will rot from the inside. Every smile you wear will taste like ash. You thought forgetting was freedom — but I stayed in the marrow of your peace, a splinter that won’t forgive. I am the pause before your laughter, the static in your prayer, the echo that keeps whispering mine. You erased me — and in return, I erased the warmth in your sleep. Now you’ll feel it — the slow burn of absence, the quietrot of guilt, the way memory claws back even after you swear it’s gone. This is not revenge. This is residue. You made me fade — and I made sure you’d never forget the sound.