Red Folder
Paper is tucked
beneath your pockets.
One year old, it holds
silent secrets.
Secrets of how
she unraveled like
a ball of twine.
Some days she peeks,
sees the name and instantly
knows she’s not ready.
Words can heal,
on the right day,
at a precise moment.
Why was it red?
She can’t remember--
there were yellows maybe,
but red seemed more…
appropriate.
Some times the red is
a fear of the past,
but sometimes, it’s
just a connection
to the bloody scars of
a mistake.
Maybe tomorrow,
I can share your secrets.
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