I Saw Their Funerals

I saw their funerals. Plath. Sexton. And somewhere near the back, mine. Not my body— not yet. But something softer, more urgent, more invisible. The girl who wrote like them just to feel seen— she’s in the box too. I saw her hair was finally unbrushed. Her hands no longer gripped a pen— they were just hands now. And no one cried, because no one knew she had been dying this whole time in silence. I stood there, dry-eyed. Because I knew this grief was not for mourning— but for releasing. And still, something in me wept like a ghost watching its own unfinished life.