HER VELVET COAT
- Mar 21
- 1 min read
By Bellatrix
I saw it in an aged photo
Not the digital kind
The one with oxidized fading
Light and orb flashes
gently nestled
where they felt invited
No edits, real and raw
Faded by time and its propensity to
speed the unwanted years
Tattered, yellowed and frayed,
stained from cigarette smoke and
cocktails de jour
In a different time,
from decades long passed by
There she was
with her velvet coat
The gentle folds of the black
midnight fabric
Looking so soft
What were the stories that lived and
certainly died in her carefully
veneered appearance
We have sentiments tied into
threads,
each sewn knot
representing a stitch in time and a
threaded breath
That velvet coat was a symbol of
her youth,
of her personal style,
A freedom of expression
All the things she did not afford to
Me
Her velvet coat
It hangs in my vanity chamber,
In the almost forgotten depths of
my wardrobe
I am in disaccord with its existence
A tainted piece from that psycho
monster
Preserved in a synthetic cover
In the lining, her dead skin cells are
all that remain
I unwittingly get flashes
Revealing her museum white face,
displaying what would now be its
ungentle textures and folds
Her velvet coat,
the photo and my agony of aversion
The last of what I have of her
I await my hard earned intrepidity
to strike a match and warm myself
as I watch the ghostly nettles of her
burn away