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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.
Copyright ©
Kell Futoll
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