Some Facts About

***SOME FACTS ABOUT***

CLAIRE DONAGHUE

She was a short, plump young lady, 

and her face was always covered in red patches and scabs.

She helped care for her mother,  who just barely escaped me. 

She was a wonderful artist,  and could make paints dance to her every whim.

She wasn't as skilled with words.

Surprisingly, her first learned language wasn't English, 

it was sarcasm. 

Though she was good at masking that from strangers,

at least, until they stopped being strangers to her.

Fifteenth Birthday ( Color Based Memory )

The murky low hanging clouds were close enough to suffocate
As she grazed her hand against the rough concrete barriers. 
She observed a haze of pale grays and whites, clinging to the ground, 
The veil of mist, and melodic singing that was ringing in her ears
The piles of snow on the ground, and the soft rumble of water cascading
She moved towards the sound, with a humble ashen trench coat hugging her body. 
Hugging her, because no one else would. 

She stood, the spray of the crashing water brushing her cheeks
The river was roaring, churning, pushing against the barriers. 
So close, the muddy green water, you could reach out and just, touch, it. 

It spit and lashed out, arcing waves trying to break the concrete chasm. 
She watched it closely, pale pink skin blending against the mottled stones. 
The water looked welcoming and almost reassuring. 
She wanted nothing more than to vanish into the churning white turmoil, 
Two steps forward, no turning back, and she could. 

She thought, chestnut hair pulled tightly back, she frowned annoyed
It was eight feet down, to the cold river, the gray icy void
Just six feet below ground, to black dresses and small oak boxes
She moved back as rain began to fall,
funerals are too expensive now a days, 
and I don't have any black dresses.