Sisterhood

I began to notice the

Fade.

Blotched ink, frayed seams

yet those who can't see

can't care

It was most familiar to a weary box

Which spent weekdays and nights

Traveling

To warm faces and comfort Sundays

I struggled when the

torch of permanent portions was passed to

me. Each word felt unworthy and full of

stain

I always strived for

realism

I used to clutch the cloth

carefully folding and unfolding

fearing the sendoff, knowing the return

would become rare

If at all.

it was a pricked finger and

remembrance

It was right to hideaway

At the time

I crumbled under the stage lights

The audience was expecting

More

All I could provide was

Myself

And like a spoiled child

I still pout

Demanding fame under my demanded

Street Lamps

Faded

Donated

What is, is

But. I do remember. Even if you figure the pants don't fit

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