The fleece jacket.

She's still in a dream-like trance,
after all these years. Trauma is a
frequent house guest that never
cleans its dishes, leaving charcoal
and misery on every surface.

When secrets sit unattended
for too long, they spoil like aged
milk. This was a secret that could
not be poured down the sink; it was
already corroding her sanity and
spilling venom into the brain stem.

If only she would have told him.

She'd arrive before dawn, the
fluorescent lights harsh in their
judgment. He'd fold his hands
and lean forward - patience,
not pity, in his eyes.

Words were an instrument
not yet known to her; she
could only show the jagged
crimson notes, unfinished
melodies, inklings of doubt.

He would wait with her until
the tangerine sun gave its
blessing, and wait with her
again through the days when
the sun couldn't reach her.

Someday, she'll finish her
symphony, with the freedom
to express more than dying
bones and sorrow's stitches.
And she'll thank a memory
that never happened, knowing
it helped her compose from
arrangements of pain she
never knew could be
h e a r d.

__________________________________________

Written while listening to "All That Remains" by Josh Kramer
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qvPY9s4bIsI