She felt the company of words.
Each letter enveloped her, carefully resting on her skin.
Their lines and circles comforted, sharing truths she longed to give.
The end of a story began another.
But no one ever wrote the pangs of transition.
Our story begins in between stories.
The waiting, the loss, the agonizing ecstasy.
None saw the hours she whiled away, or the silent tears minutes pulled from her eyes.
An actor, resilient, strong, confined to her role as accepting, acquiescing, agreeable girl.
Relent when too pressing, retract when words too biting, agree to lies heaved on her shoulders by those older, more schooled in deceit.
Check. And check. And again and always evermore, check.
She'd stir tensions at work but stop to placate.
And open passions in lovers that needed forgetting.
And everywhere she went, everyone she met always had something to say.
Colors so vibrant instill words in the inarticulate.
She gathered them up, gems, thorns, et al, and stored them away, each box lining tattered shelves.
To remember and regret, neither confirm or deny, the hate and love that lies.
That is never strong enough to stay put.
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