it's just that you pulled on a loose thread,
the very one meant to unravel me.
and your hands are full of what's left
of me, and I don't think that's what
you meant. but I feel you stitching me
back together, even without meaning it,
even without wanting to. I'm no longer
tattered, in pieces, I'm something
resembling wholeness. I'm something
that stands on her own two feet,
and maybe it'd be better to say I
did it myself, and maybe I did -
but still, you were there and you
tugged hard enough to trigger the destruction
that lead to my recreation.