What does she mourn?
She mourns the girl she was before, the one she had to kill to survive.
The soft one, the bright one, the version who still believed she could be safe if she was good enough.
Who apologized too quickly.
Who whispered “it’s fine” with a tremble in her throat and a door in her face.
That girl died quietly.
But her funeral was felt. Every time someone called her difficult for saying no.
She mourns the time stolen.
The years she gave to unworthy hands.
Not just lovers, but systems.
Family.
Men who claimed to love her,
but loved her most when she was silent.
She mourns the innocence of believing closure would come from their mouths.
It never did.
So she made her own: sharp, stitched, sovereign.
And some nights
she mourns how much she still wants to be held
by someone who won’t flinch when she growls.
But make no mistake:
Her mourning does not leave her undone.
She wears it.
Like lace.
Like armor.
And when the violin starts low and slow
when the world expects her to shatter
She smiles.
Because even grief sounds like a war drum in her hands.