the flowers wilt before they’re placed.
mourning suits fit like disgrace.
a hush, then murmurs, rustling pews—
all eyes await the one who knew.
i step to speak. my voice is clean.
measured tone, rehearsed and lean.
they think i loved the one who fell—
i watched them crumble. knew too well.
behind me, grief drips thick and black,
a cloud that curls along my back.
it stains the windows, crawls the walls,
it hums behind the preacher’s calls.
“a soul too bright to ever die.”
they nod. they break. they wipe their eyes.
while i recall their final cries.
each word i shape in velvet skin
wraps the rot i hid within.
“she lived with grace.” (her blood ran slow.)
“she left too soon.” (i made it so.)
i lift their name with solemn grace,
mask the tremor, slow my pace.
but in the pause between each line,
the silence knows this grief is mine.
the dead don’t speak—but they surround.
she lingers here, without a sound.
a presence thick as winter breath,
a gaze beneath the veil of death.
she floats behind me—numb, unseen—
eyes like frost on guillotine.
if they knew, would they still weep?
or throw me to the pit so deep?
yet here i stand, the mourner’s guide,
while guilt and shadow stand beside.
a perfect lover, a grieving friend,
the one who brought her to the end.
this is the curse of spoken grace:
to name the loss you helped erase.
and when the last word dares to fall—
her silence is the loudest call.
i end with silence. let it sit—
a sacred hush, rehearsed and lit.
they bow their heads. the tears arrive.
and i remain the one alive.
step away, heart neat, confined—
but grief is not so well-designed.
it clings to collars, stains the hem,
like wet black lace that knows it’s them.
they clutch their hands and kiss the frame
of photos blurred by candle flame.
“she had a light,” they say again.
they never saw it snuffed by men.
i pass the coffin—one slow glance.
no tremble, tear, or second chance.
but inside me, thunder moans—
her whisper threading through my bones.
“you spoke so sweet, you liar’s tongue.
but death remembers what you’ve done.”
i feel her breath behind my eyes.
i blink. i smile. no one’s wise.
but in that box, she doesn’t rest—
she stalks the hollows of my chest.
and still i nod. still i console.
play the mourner’s well-worn role.
i tell her mother, “she was strong.”
she weeps against my folded hand.
if she knew, she’d let me stand
where her daughter sleeps instead.
but i just cradle what i bled.
the hymns begin. a choir sings.
their harmony is tightening strings.
each note wraps tighter round my neck—
a velvet noose, so soft, so wrecked.
they praise her life. i watch the sky.
no lightning bolt. no heavens cry.
god is quiet. so is guilt.
but both are rivers i have spilt.
i see her there in every face.
the mourners lost inside this place.
she lives in them, but not in peace—
she lives in fragments. piece by piece.
let the roots and worms all keep
the body that i once betrayed—
the quiet girl i made afraid.
but know this much, if nothing more:
i gave the speech. i shut the door.
and if you think this grief’s untrue,
romaincrisis
snowghoul
2087
stormborns
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
