There are deaths that happen without a body.

Without a headline.

Without flowers.

Just a quiet folding inward —

when someone crosses a line they shouldn’t,

or says nothing when they should.

This is about violence.

The kind that doesn’t always bruise the skin.

The kind that isn’t always loud.

The kind that doesn’t always wear a name or a gender.

It slips under the surface —

and settles.

We bury it deep.

So deep,

that even we stop looking.

And in that silence,

something in us dies.

The softest part.

The truest.

So we hold our own funerals.

In the soul.

In secret.

And we wrap what’s left

in lace.

Not all funerals are public.

But all of them are real.