Laced pillows hold no more mystery

Only a cradle for her labyrinth of a mind

Flowered patterns are not kaleidoscopes

Only warmth in the night

The architect of such a memory’s hands

Are withered from time

Filled with compassion

That is quickly diminished by her iced wrath

Smoke and mirrors of

A relationship

Materializing malicious exchanges

Between the two

Some repaired and

Some never forgotten

Stained into the walls of the house

Reeking of salted tears and shame

She has grown

Grown into a constant confusion

Warped into familial hysteria

Looking for herself

In a world that rejects such a quest

Experiencing a world she in no longer held from

By her pixel captor

She is different now

Almost unrecognizable

But sometimes she still wonders

As she stares into the stitching of her pillow

Of who she used to be