Unwilling Ending

I could tell myself the smell of smoke was from a bonfire, even while wrapping my burns in gauze as the fire blazed. I could pretend the smell of my burning flesh was just dinner being made, that you weren’t salivating at the thought of it. I could say I didn’t know better. I did. Every word, every step, every text, every call, it was the call of the end. Death itself wouldn’t have been this cruel. I suppose I am also to blame, too stubborn for my own survival. It was a reluctant goodbye, heard by all too willing ears.