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  • Writer's pictureMelissa

Morbid Mournings

Updated: Apr 11, 2022

My brain is a morgue. Hollow and deathly quiet. Nothingness echoing against the walls of my skulls in an eerie, barely audible whisper of dread.

I stare far away into the distance, seeing nothing, my body unmoving with the stillness of death itself. I’m not here, not in my head. Not floating either. Just stationed at my post, guarding the dead and knowing I alone must grieve.

Silent waves of sadness filter through the slats. My eyes pool up. Tears fall silently, grief so palpable yet so meek.

There’s no rush of grief, just intermittent tears that cease soon after they start, and deep sighs coming out of nowhere.

The sorrow, at first glance, seems to be about a fresh casket, but no; that’s only an illusion. Its echoes are old, its sadness is long-suffered. It’s about life long buried, memories lying dormant in the bowels of earth.

So deeply hidden that my brain remembers nothing of it. Just death. The dying of life that once was. The snuffing of a spirit that once burgeoned. The slaying of innocence and laughter.

And so I remain standing, my gaze still focused on some indeterminate spot, my brain nowhere, my thoughts hollow, my life suspended, letting the sadness rise up, the tears meekly fall, not straining my brain cells with questions that I cannot answer.

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