Don't have to make your life worse, frustrating your well-meaning will with my possessive wordlessness

at least it belongs to me.
Can't take it away.

Don't have to waste paint when I subdue my past embracefully to my grave

at least it will choke on to its foreshortened death.
I'm happy for that fresh air in your coffin.

Don't need to take your worries and broad questions with a serious degree
even a psychiatry scholar can burn themselves seriously.

I smile when I'm warming you, blind to the shadows that my fire screams in some way.

Don't need to be target, your stonable clown of explicit shame or guilt.

Won't die as a ******.
Won't ****** as a lost cause.

Couldn't be more glad to somehow resemble myself.
If I was you, who would be me?