In the Institute

Her floors still sparkle
years after her brain melted
and disorder reigned.

It started with string:
a loose thread that unravelled
her tightly wound self

his barbed words poking
holes in clammed up memories
until they slipped out

and she, like the egg,
sat in pieces on the floor
scrubbing and scrubbing

it clean.

Photo by therapycatguardian; Poetry by Heather Taylor