Death without dying

You don't have to die to be dead. I have mental, emotional, and spiritual funerals on a daily basis.

Some mornings, I bury hope before my feet touch the floor. Grief sits beside me while I brush my teeth, uninvited but familiar. I lose parts of myself in conversations that don’t hear me. There’s a quiet decay in pretending I’m fine. I light candles for versions of me no one knew but me. Sometimes I forget how many of me I’ve mourned. I carry a heaviness that has no obituary, no flowers, no mourners. Smiles become gravestones when they’re forced. The world keeps moving, unaware of the ruins I sweep beneath my ribcage. I survive by planting seeds in ash, not knowing if they’ll grow. And still, I rise, not reborn—but rearranged.