By the time this reaches your ears, if
Someone chooses to spend life speaking death,
Know that I left you nothing but dust.

I won't offer you a pretty corpse to stare at,
A bower to water with tears I didn't beg you,
And my cold hands won't rest under yours.

They won't stitch me up or mute me any more
Than I mute myself, leaving these words
On the lips of someone who cares enough
About you to share them.

I have left you dust and ash. If you must,
Go ahead. Take a vial, a fistful. Scatter them, or
Keep them, or whatever feels right to you.
I'm not much for demands anymore.

Know that you hold in your hands nothing.
My transfiguration is complete - even that
Gray waste between your fingers isn't me,
Not anymore. I've moved on. You should, too.