These weighed down bundles of my tumbled dried insides collapse into heavy stacks of cotton linen sheets, tangled; memories of cold pressed touches and warm suds wash over me, while my seams come undone in my hands.
Why do you think these threads can be untangled? I've looked at your patchwork heart and oh, how I wish mine could be mended like that, but I hope you can understand, I've broken many needles in the process and I'm not sure I can afford to start again.
Sometimes it's hard to let another person take a crack at loving you. Maybe it should be said it's hard to look at yourself and take a crack at loving yourself, again, too.