The Trigger

Some call this chaos.
She proudly calls them scars.

They try to heal daily,

beginning with the morning sunrise. 
Much like a Polaroid,

the images are faded,

but the smell of sweet release 

seldom crosses her path.
So much laughter and memories

are now covered with age.

The house no longer carries hope

so much as strength.
The last time she stepped into that building

her memories did not fit the surroundings,

they were too busy pealing. 
Like a shadow at night

crawling across on a wall

she keeps waiting for the light 

to paint her image, shape,

and scare away what cannot be 

answered or changed.
This feeling will soon come,

and visit,

again tonight. 
A shadow doesn’t exist without its light. 

Sometimes our fears are only fiction.