"Left to the Dust"

They were right to leave me here.

The walls do not whisper their names anymore,

only the wind, slipping through the cracks,

only the dust, settling where footsteps once were.

I do not call out.

What would be the point?

Even the echoes have abandoned me,

fleeing down halls lined with rot,

through doors that no longer close.

It is easier this way.

Easier to let the quiet grow thick,

to let the mold take root in my ribs,

to let the damp air fill my lungs

until breathing feels like stealing

what was never meant to be mine.

I do not blame them.

They saw the ruin creeping in,

saw the foundation bending, breaking,

saw what I was becoming.

They left before I could stain them, too.

And maybe I have always belonged to the dust,

to the quiet decay of forgotten things.

Maybe I was meant to be left behind,

to be swallowed by the dark,

to become nothing at all.