The body I live in is a badly built coffin for the soul inside. I’ve been dead for years. The screams of ghosts no one hears are buried in the lungs beneath my ribs.
My life is just daily walking, like a funeral procession that never stops at the grave. My smile is only a wreath of flowers, neatly arranged to hide the rot below.
The breath I take and release is only wind across a grave no one visits.
Strangely true: my parents once owned funeral homes, and we all played our part—kindness, love, grace, mercy, tears, and hugs, given when people needed them most. Those days are gone. In 2026 it feels like no one knows how to show that anymore.