I mourn you like you’re dead.
I am sad about the person you used to be, I am upset that person doesn’t exist anymore. I gave myself time, but the sadness stays like a security blanket; if I am only sad, I cannot be so angry. If I lie to myself, I can believe you’re gone and I can only be haunted by your ghost. I am haunted by the shell of you who walks through this waking world, numb and cold.
I mourn you like you died because that’s easier to process.
I cry for you in my dreams, but in my waking moments when you cross my mind, I remember it’s not real—you are still here. Some version of you. I water my feelings down, I give them time to move on. I give myself time, but the anger never leaves. How could I be so misunderstood and so seen at the same time?
The anger is my friend—I hug it tightly when no one can see. I put my security blanket away, find my friend, and I am ready to face anything. My friend leaves and I search for my security blanket. I hold it and love it. I know I’ll have to put it away again, but for now it is my comfort.
I mourn you, not miss you.
I lie to myself over again and I believe. I decide to put it all away, to tell my friend to move away and get a new blanket.
I mourn for you, about you.
I tell myself you are going to change. I move on because I know when I’m lying to myself, even if I chose to believe it. I give myself time, but there’s never enough. I give myself space, but my feelings are too big for any space and I find myself alone with them all over again.
I mourn for the person I used to be. I mourn for the world I thought I lived in. I mourn for the missed moments and the good ones that ended too quickly. I mourn for who we once were. I mourn for who I once was.