Musings on Life from a Dead Girl

Mourn

I do not mourn the dead.
I mourn the living.
I mourn for the people I used to know.
The ones that stand before me now.
Wearing the faces of those whom I used to trust.
Used to love.
The woman who would chase away my fears that now leaves me to do battle alone.
The lady that gave me a kingdom underneath the willows that now prattles on in prejudiced nonsense.
I mourn a family that still draws breath but no longer lives.
I mourn a home burned to ash that yet stands.
I am homesick for a place that I'm not sure ever existed to begin with.
For people I must have imagined, in the thin lens of rose-colored childhood.
I mourn my memories of the way things used to be and I wonder if any of it was ever real.
Or if I imagined it like a mirage of water in the desert.
I wonder if I chose to see what I had to, to survive like a man desperate.
Saw instead of the selfishness of my kin, saw loving, honest illusions of the people around me.
I remember the day the magic died.
I remember trembling and crying.
Unable to understand how someone I had loved and put on a pedestal my entire life would turn on me.
My sister saw it too.
She slept in my bed with me that night for the first time since she was six.
I mourn as if they were all dead, yet they sit across from me.
I can still look at them.
Hold them.
But it will never be the same.
It's all gone.
Everyone is dead.
I mourn for the girl I was before they died.
The girl that had hope.
I miss that most, what it felt like not to already know the answer before the question is asked.
Now I am alone with the corpses of the people I loved.
In the house I once knew, in the home I will never see again.
Mourning a life that was never real anyway.