you mourn because it looks better than guilt

You mourn every version of yourself that survived things you no longer talk about. You do it while dressed in black, with your hands folded and a calm face. The grief looks holy from the outside. But you know better. You know it’s actually guilt disguised as mercy. It’s a performance for no one in particular. You wear the mask like you’ve earned it, but it’s paper-thin and completely soaked through. Underneath is a face that doesn’t even believe in the tears anymore.

You say you’ve changed. You say you’ve grown. But when the lights are off and no one’s watching, you miss the version of yourself who didn’t have to pretend so hard. You say that version was broken, but at least they were honest. You mourn them in public and betray them in silence. You don’t talk about what you survived because that would ruin the image. It would ruin the the shiny new you. The rising phoenix. Except the fire never went out and the ashes still taste like the same old dirty dust you’re so accustomed to.

You keep inviting that version back because you don’t know how to live without that familiar ache. That self is the ghost that keeps crawling into your bed, the same one you welcome with open arms and then tell yourself it’s just nostalgia. But it’s not. It’s addiction. Familiarity. It’s the cycle you swore you’d break and never did.

You perform as someone better because if people believe you’ve moved on, then maybe you’re allowed to believe it too. If you smile wide enough, maybe they won’t notice the way your hands shake when no one’s looking. You play the part of the strong one and the one who rises every time. You want to be proof that it gets better. But you know it doesn’t.

The truth is, you like the mourning because pain is where you feel most alive. You know the pattern way too well. It’s a story in three acts: the rise, the fall and the performance. You know how to cry in the right lighting or how to break in beautiful ways. People think that’s strength and can barely see the lie behind it.

You hold onto the mourning because letting go would mean facing what you have been trying to hide. And you’re not sure there’s anything real down there.

Maybe there is.

Maybe there isn’t.

But at least the grief is yours. And right now, that feels like enough.

The lights are off and the seats are empty. Who are you still performing for?

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