Her entire heart appears as a cicatrix; her mind, a tight-wrapped coccoon.
That month which marked incarceration, rather than freedom, fast approaching.
Her hell need not resemble that of another, it is engulfing, all the same.
Recalcitrant now, aberrant in the thralldom of emotions that she no longer knows how to name or show.
Is freedom wasted on those who know not what to do with it?