The funeral

I just attended the funeral of the girl who died in October. I've spent most of this evening and now morning throwing away her things and deciding what I want to keep. Her funeral was brief. No one who loved her attended. Only me. And I did not love her. In her dying breath I lost the worst of her... but kept her insecurities. She was always willing to wear a mask and to dance for whomever was around. In the end she was a worn out husk. She couldn't keep going. She died in that first kiss. And now I'm here. I'm in her room. I use her computer. I take her classes. I refuse to wear a mask. Am I better for it? Maybe, but I'm hated for it too. I sit here, writing these things on her blog. This was HER blog. And yet the writing style is the same. The insecurities still securely lodged, so deep, that sometimes it chokes me, from the inside. I am the same girl that I was before, but not at all. This is my life. I can't allow others to change me, or let me decide to change for them. That girl is dead. And I am reborn. Four years from now, I will look back and even this version of me may be dead. But... at least I know now that it is a process, and with luck each time, something will change for the better.